Release
by PursuitsEternal
Summary: For the mature. A female prisoner of nobility who disavows freedom; a stone-hearted Inspector who embodies cruel, unbending justice; and a strange arrangement between them. She is out of line, she is temptation, and she must be taught her place
1. Acquitted

**Author's warning: **_This story will not be for the innocent. Do not be sensitive. Take everything to have another, dirtier meaning. Cast off your apprehensions and your sheltered-ness. Dare to read on, dear readers. _

_If you find it believable, let me know; find it offensive, inform me of that too. Have a request, demand of it to me. _

_Thank you, dear readers._

_And now we begin..._

* * *

"You have been acquitted. You're free to go."

The words washed over her ears like the first rain after a draught. But metaphors of water only made her conscious of the burning thirst in her throat. Cécelie succeeded a feeble smile through the bars before her face, attempting to lift herself from the slimy, filth-crusted prison floor. Her chains, tight around her neck and ankles stop that motion with a clanging crash.

The ring of metal echoed through the stone cell as the key unlocked the bars, screeching and shrieking on their hinges as it swayed open. Hard-heeled boots clacked, and the one face she had seen for the past week loomed over her limp body. His pale green eyes as stony as the prison walls.

Her breath came ragged and thin as she attempted to moisten her cracked lips, parched from thirst. Fighting against her chains, she tried to sit straight and proper, maneuvering her wrists, shackled together, to fix and comb her hair as best she could. Perhaps it was simply because he was the only other human she'd seen for a week, or maybe it was the raw sense of power her jailor exuded. But she cared how she appeared for him, wanting to seem as decent and attractive as she could in spite of her ragged, filthy and torn dress, and her muck-streaked cheeks.

"Didn't you hear the news of which I just informed you?" he leered closer to her crouching form, "You may express your joy, number 3072." His rough hands grappled at the thick metal locks, binding her neck to the wall. A dry laugh tickled the back of his throat as he examined her coiled, sullied body at his feet. There was something about the way women prisoners always rested, crumpled in two and supplicating on the floor that made him laugh. Not in pleasure, and not in pain. Just laugh. The shackle opened with a click, releasing her pale, supple neck from its rusty bonds.

She would not respond to his questions. Strange, he thought; usually they clambered and clawed their way back to the surface without so much as a break of silence in their screeching exultations. Though, he did reflect, this one had been different in temperament than his previous keeps. "Lean forward, 3072," he ordered, finding the locks to her wrists wrapped tightly behind her back.

His keep complied, still silent save the ragged, shallow breathing, which gave way to a gentled grunt in effort as she moved. Another click, and the chains around her hands fell on her lap. Immediately, her hands reached up into her hair, bright blonde save the streaks of grim and sweat. Her fingers combed through the ratted strands, and her eyes remained fixed on the toes of his boots. In fact, he couldn't recall just what color her eyes were. Not that it mattered.

"Give me your legs," his voice was toneless; he had done this a hundred times before.

She did not so much as stir from her hunched position. "Your legs," he growled again, louder, more forceful. Her eyes lifted to his hardened face, a deep, almost violet blue hue to them. And she carefully moved her legs straight out before her, hissing in pain as they straightened, finally loosed from the unbound chains around her.

That blue, like his uniform, like shadowed water; he was surprised he hadn't observed it before. The metal links of the chain he pulled out from the rings around her ankles, opening the final lock between her and her bestowed freedom.

With the final click of the final lock, Cécelie finally forced a sigh from her shaking chest. In swift motion, the jailor stood straight at attention, he never allowed himself to be lax in posture, not off duty, not ever. And yet, those piercing blue eyes did not waver from his face, penetrating into his own from where his prisoner still sat in the filth of the prison. The silence in the cell seemed to reverberate in his ears, as if he needed to issue but one more command.

Clearing his throat, he gratified the silence. "You are free to leave now, 3072."

"I know, Inspector. You told me so already, _Monsieur_," her voice cracked and scratched with weakness most would deem pitiful.

Taking a step back, he cleared the way between his prisoner and the cell door. "Be on your way then." But her constant position unsettled him. This was not how freed prisoners were to behave.

Her bewitching eyes blinked once. "No."

"What?" the jailor raised his thick dark eyebrow, furrowing the other deeper over his eye. "You have been acquitted of all charges. You are to leave immediately, how do you not understand?"

"I do understand, Inspector. But I will not leave from here to return to them," her cracked lips quivered in suppressed emotion. "I will not return."

"You cannot remain here instead," he scoffed at her, drawing his arms from where they had firmly pressed to his side to instead cross before his chest of impeccably gleaming brass buttons. "You are no prostitute, you are no thief, and you have been cleared of all charges of murdering your own husband," he cocked his cleft chin to the side, "It is your duty now to return to your life."

At the very mention of her husband, her blue eyes widened in intensity, and a sneer began to curl at the upper, right-hand corner of her cracked lips. "I should have been to one to plunge that dagger into his heart, Inspector."

"Yet the law finds you innocent. And so you must leave this cell," he narrowed his suspicious eyes down at her, "That is your order, 3072."

Standing from the floor, she straightened her rags around her full shape, trying her best to cover the indecent tears at her neckline. She drew herself up to her full height. If this was his label of her, his perception of her as her dead husband's wife, then it was a role easy to exploit. Now she was acquitted. "Inspector, you will address me by my title, if you please."

"Of course, _Comptesse_," he bowed his broad upper-body ever so slightly, returning her stare the moment he straightened. Forcing a smile, he followed her from the cell, turning the key in the iron lock firmly behind them, "You should be glad to return to your nobility, _Comptesse_. Most of our acquitted occupants only return to the gutter to find themselves back here in a matter of days, guilty of a new crime," he looked at her beside him from the farthest corner of his eyes.

"I would plan to do just that, if my husband were not already dead," she whispered.

The inspector hitched in the rhythm of his stride at her words, and Cécelie came to a stop in the middle of the cellblock, surrounded on each side by unoccupied bar-lined cages. "Come now, surely we can reach some other sort of arrangement," she smiled slightly, her voice having lost its scratched quality. "I have obeyed your command to leave the cell at the very least, Inspector. But now I beg you for a strange sort of mercy." Her eyes stared into this unmoving face, the distance in his eyes, the firmness to his pressed lips, the fineness to the dark sideburns running along his squared jaw. "I may be the only prisoner to deny the second chance for freedom, but do not throw me back to the wolves of noble society."

"What would you have me do then, _Comptesse_?" Only the slightest inkling of his inner confusion shone from the green depths of his eyes. And so he asked for an order, as was his natural custom.

The _Comptesse's_ face softened at his query, "Inspector, I would first have you forget my title. If I am to remain, I no longer need it." He nodded slowly. "And I ask that you put me to work, not in the prisons, but anywhere else. I can be useful to you," she added gently, a sly sort of smile hinting at her lips.

Taken off guard, he threw back his head slightly at her request, weighing the offer against the glimpse of a threat she had issued not moments before. Why were these women creatures so annoyingly complex and unhappy, he sneered within himself. And yet, for her worth, she was noble although she denied the nature. Surely keeping her from committing anything further was preemptive justice, not mercy nor pity. His duty then.

"Fine," he growled after his moments of reflection, "You are released, and free to do as you wish. And I, for my part, accept your offer."

He could see the wave of tension pass from her form.

"But you will remain under my keeping still, 3072. This offer is incorruptible yet strange nonetheless. I will not have this appearing suspicious to my superiors, understand?" he nodded for emphasis, meeting her inscrutable gaze with his owns severity.

"Yes, Inspector Javert. Only, I have one further request," she replied with the hint of a parched smirk to her lips, "Do not call me by my number any longer in place of my title, if you please."

"What then?" he snarled, taken aback by the thinly disguised command.

"Cécelie will do, Inspector," she answered, "unless you have a title you prefer."


	2. Swollen

Alone in his quarters, Javert proceeded in his usual routine for sleep. Removing his uniform, blocking his hat, polishing the scuffs of his boots formed a concentrated method for him. Everything perfect in its place. Unlike that woman. Why couldn't he force her from his mind as he usually could with his problems, for that's all she was. A problem. How he hated when things did not fit where they belonged, like a noblewoman in the gutter of a prison cell, like an acquitted prisoner who refused her freedom. What had come over him to agree to her suggestion, what compelled him to offer her a room in the _Préfecture _for the night? And why did those piercing, unmistakable eyes penetrate every thought that passed through his logical mind?

His years of service gained him a name that was feared in every shady corner of Paris and in every cold, murderous crime-driven heart within his jurisdiction. But those eyes could send a tremor down to the polished, gleaming heels of his boots. He should have left the harlot in chains as 3072 instead of this dissenting _Comptesse_, instead of Cécelie.

He drew the stiffly starched, white linen sheets of his bed, folding them perfectly down to place himself in bed. But when he closed his eyes, all he could see was that tossed hair, that chained, supple neck and those damned eyes. His mind flashed to where he had left her not moments ago, as she prepared to clean up, bathe and prepare herself for bed as a noblewoman should. Then, she would lay under similar sheets, her rounded, womanly figure forming a different silhouette beneath the linen…

Javert's eyes opened wide into the darkness of his room. This was not like him. This did not fit who he was any more than Cécelie fit any of her own negotiable labels. Witch of a woman. He should have left her bound by her ankles and wrists. Closing his eyes again, he considered if he still return her to chains and bars. She would be asleep, unknowing and appearing more innocent in repose than she ever did in consciousness. He could still take his chains, his shackles, and grab her milk-white ankles again, locking them firmly together and chaining her to the wooden posters of the bed. The same could easily and quickly be done with her wrists—locking them firmly above her head, helpless and captured. And then she would return under his mercy again, though no longer the silent, still, enigmatic prisoner that subtlety strained his every expectation. Unsuspecting until it was too late for her to escape his power. As her superior, he'd have every right to punish her as he saw fit, he sneered into the darkness.

His breath came harder where he lay as the images flashed over his mind, and that was not the only thing harder, he noticed. With a groan, he sat up on the edge of his bed, unable to ignore the prominent ache, the protrusion in his nightclothes. Hardly anything ever excited him in this way, he groaned. Another example of the day's abnormalities—his pulsing, swollen dick.

Lifting away the bottom of his nightshirt, he gripped his cock tightly in his hand, and the still unfamiliar feeling sent a jolt up his spine. This was a pleasure he always denied himself, one of the many. But now and again, especially after the strangeness of the day, he saw no harm. Quickly, his large, rough hand beat back and forth along his considerable length, steady in his timing, unyielding in his pressure. The dry, rubbing beat excited him even more.

In his mind, he still pictured her body, prostrate, spread and supplicating, those damned eyes wide and startling as they had been since he noticed them that day. The rhythm of rubbing numbed his mind of conscious thoughts, the sensation over his dick enough to occupy him for the moment. Hard and firm, like the iron of the bars, the metal of chains. The chains around those pale legs, the iron that circled her perfect neck. Images flashed quicker as he sped up his own pace. Already the pressure swelled inside, and with one last flashing glimpse of violet eyes in his mind, he stifled a groan, spilling his seed onto the stone floor with a final spasm of long-denied pleasure.

Neat and orderly, he immediately wiped the offending ejaculation from the floor with a soiled kerchief. Not a trace left of his indulgence. Even since he reached this mark of maturity, this pleasure, this exhaustion still affected him with self-imposed inexperience. And lying back down beneath his sheets, he took one last pleasure in laying on his back, resting his arms beneath his long, loose dark hair and taking a deep indulging breath. He could manage to control this intoxicating, forbidden change in the morning, once he was rested and attentive. Finding his release, it was his duty now to sleep.


	3. Wicked

Birdsong, gentle and trilling, greeted Cécelie's ears where she lay in bed. A thin beam of morning light warmed her face from the small semi-circular window at the head of her bed. And for the first time in years, she awoke from her sleep with a smile on her face.

To stretch, to sprawl in a feathered bed was like heaven compared to the jail cell, but the freest feeling of them all was knowing she woke alone. Released from prison, free from her shackles, and liberated from the brute of a husband that once she had. But she was done dwelling on the wounds he left her as her only inheritance with his death. The thought of wounds sent her hand wandering absent-mindedly over the center of her stomach. Enough. She'd started a new sort of life before, and this one suited her far better at any rate, she encouraged herself.

Standing from the mattress, she strolled softly to the mirror opposite the foot of her bed, taking careful stock of her face, strange as it looked to her since she last saw it. Her hair, pale and earthy as the straw, fell far down to the middle of her back; her face, usually so round and full, seemed hollow and papery in the light, and her entire figure appeared leaner if not skinny, losing some of its curved fullness from that stay in prison.

No matter. A new look would suit a new way of life just fine.

As she began to finger the knots from her hair, a knock sounded heavily through her door. "Enter," she spoke clearly.

The creaking door timbers opened and shut, and heavy footfalls fell across the floor, halting just behind her. In the reflection, the Inspector's flinty complexion appeared unchanged, his uniform perfectly fitted, his hat impeccably straightened on his broad head; not a hair or a line or button was out of place. Across his arms, she observed a swath of matching navy fabric, long and trailing almost to the floor, a set of starched white petticoats folded perfectly on top of the pile.

"_Bonjour, l'Inspecteur_. How thoughtful of you to bring me these," she greeted to the man's reflection, meeting his mirrored eyes, their intense color undiminished by the glass. "You may set them on the bed, _Monsieur_. I will tend to them later," she refocused on her hair, as knotted and unruly as it was from her quick, frigid bath last night.

"You are to tend to them now," he replied immediately, holding them disdainfully from his body, "Get dressed. I am to have you report to the Commissioner as soon as you are decent. " He stepped in front of her in two long strides, "Here," he forced the clothing into her unwilling hands, and a sneer curled his lip as his eyes flashed once up and down over her thinly clothed body, that white shift hiding so very little of her skin. His groin began to ache again, but closing his eyes for a moment, he regained himself; control was his always his strength.

She looked over the simple blue dress, the stiff garments tussled in her hands for a split second before she set them across the foot of the bed herself. To her surprise, there was no sound of receding footsteps. Turning, the severe face of the Inspector remained fixated on her, standing at attention, unmoving between her and the door. She furrowed her brow at the familiar look on his face; he was guarding her still, just as he had for the past week. A wicked thought crossed her mind, a smirk crossing her face; how long would the iron clad will of the Inspector last—she was about to find out.

Without turning her back to him in modesty, she began slowly lifting the course nightshift from her body, her eyes never once leaving his for a moment. Impressive resolve, she thought as she exposed her bare legs to his unmoving gaze; his eyes never once darted to glace down at her body. A quick pull over her head, and she bared herself to him, standing stark naked under his green, icy eyes.

Still, he trained his eyes only on her face, not even a flicker or the slightest movement to her breasts, her waist or her thighs. Perhaps he was not a man, but a machine as rumors would have him. That could not be, no man is purely perfect. Slyly, she considered again; if she were to divert her face from him, and what part of her anatomy would he observe then.

Lowering her head and hiding her eyes, she began to examine her own body, drawing her hands gently over the mounds of her breasts, between their vast fullness and down to her stomach. There, with an acute pain to her heart, a single finger traced over the hardened, puckered skin drawn in a straight line over just under her navel. The scar still hurt to the touch as she pressed along its horizontal length. Before her memories, dark and disturbing, could stir, she snickered to herself, running her hand even lower to the coarser hair of her womanhood between her legs.

At this, the Inspector cleared his throat, and she looked up slowly, only to meet the same steely gaze, unmoving from her face or her down-turned head. He certainly was a hard man, resolute and unyielding. "If I may, the Commissioner is attending on your presence. And you must be dressed before _him," _his voice resounded clear and commanding, not a trace of husky desire to it.

Inside, she relinquished her game, quickly complying to necessity and pulling her petticoats and undergarments on in due order. The dress she lingered on, examining its thickness, its officialness—almost as though it was a police uniform itself in dress form. It even wrapped around and closed in front like the jackets worn by officers of rank.

With the last button fastened, she heard those heavy footfalls return to the door, "Come along, woman," his familiar growl and sneer waited for her beside the opened door, "_Monsieur le Commissionaire_ has not my patience, as you will find in time." She followed his large form through the corridors of the _Préfecture_ to the thick, oaken office door of the Commissioner.

And despite all the coolness and calm she prided herself on, Cécelie's heart raced. She always had succeeded at trial by fire in the past, somehow escaping burns if not scars. Swallowing hard, she understood too well what would happen to this new, if not fresh, chance at a life if this meeting should fail.

She had nowhere else to go. So she might as well remain.


	4. The Contract

"Inspector Javert, take a seat," the Commissioner ordered from behind his desk without so much as a glance at the door, the quill in his hand scratching furiously over the paper before him. His large, rotund form sat in a mass, filling the wooden chair he occupied; his balding head was ringed with his remaining slick, greasy grey hair, and graying stubble barely covered his fat cheeks, lining the great layering folds of chins that drooped to his chest.

The Inspector bowed sharply at the waist before stepping through the door and striding to the single empty chair before the Commissioner's bureau. He refused the invitation to sit before a superior, glaring at his charge as she made the slightest motion to fill the chair. A glare which she returned directly with those damn blue eyes. He turned his head abruptly forward once more, his pristine posture at attention, waiting for his commander once more.

Another moment of weighted silence passed before the Commissioner looked up from his work, his eyes black—starkly dark against his pale skin, his graying hair. "So, Javert," his smile spread wide, his chin jiggling as he spoke, "This is the woman you spoke of," his eyes wagged over her. She was pretty, strikingly handsome if not fashionably beautiful with that full figure. "I followed your case with great interest, _Comptesse_ de Rénauld. Never thought you would be found guilty, not when your husband… your late husband, I mean… was harrowed by that many creditors. Money or love is the usual motive."

"Well, believe me, _Monsieur le Commissionaire_, when I tell you that… love… for my husband would never have been a motive," she replied cryptically, that same enigmatic smile across her lips. The Inspector sent her a warning glare from beside her for her near insubordination. He would tolerate none of that, personally.

But the Commissioner laughed heartily at her response, "So we concluded in our investigation. I'm just curious why a woman who married into such a noble lineage would refuse her release back to those echelons of society from which she had been so abruptly arrested." He raised a thick, scraggy and grey brow at her, "You are free, yet you beg to remain here, bound by the confines of the law as a dog of the police."

"Yes, _Monsieur le Commissionaire_. I understand the decision," her mezzo voice sounded clear and confident.

"And you agree then that in return for this position, you are voluntarily placing yourself directly beneath the power of Inspector Javert?" at which point, the old man's black eyes, indicated the policeman beside her with a single darting glance.

"Yes, _Monsieur_. I willingly do so," her respectful, official tone took the Inspector off guard, and, half shocked, half suspicious his stern eyes glanced over to her proud face, her erect posture. It was like she suddenly, instantaneously assumed her new role. It was… impressive… startling… arousing. He could not remove his eyes from her profile, observing the slightest sliver of her violet irises from his sidelong view. She vowed to be his, under his power, under him…

"Inspector Javert?" the Commissioner shot his a doubtful, suspicious look.

"Yes, _Monsieur le Commissionaire_?" he replied, returning his gaze forward.

The Commissioner smiled patronizingly, "You are my best officer by leaps and bounds, Javert. But I asked you if you were certain of your agreement to this."

Javert cleared he throat calmly, "My apologies, _Monsieur._ Yes, I agree to it on one condition."

"Name it, Javert."

"That I have the right to terminate this agreement if and when I see fit."

Javert smirked slightly at the loudly drawn inhale from his new subordinate.

"Perfectly sound, Inspector. Now if you could both sign this document, this contract will be complexly formalized," the Commissioner held up his quill in his fat fingers.

Striding forward, the Inspector took the quill in his own hand, dashing his slanted, perfect signature in a single flourish. Then straightening, he passed the feather to the woman behind him, deliberately pressing his palm into hers in the process. Her face showed no regret and no compulsion to pull away; those eyes held his own with direct, almost challenging strength. He watched her bend over the bureau top, dip the quill in ink once more and scratch out her own signature beneath his.

"You may go," the Commissioner dismissed them, blowing air to dry the ink before placing it atop a high pile of papers.

Inspector Javert marched forward to the door, holding it open for his officer to pass, then shutting it firmly behind them both. He raised a single bushy brow as he gazed down at her upturned face, sensing her defiance barely held in check. "And now, woman, you are mine," those alluring blue circles narrowed in their gaze. He continued, "You will obey my every order. You are under my command, that is until I release you from this contract to throw you back out into the world you hide away from."

"Yes, Inspector," she replied automatically and obediently. But that obedience did not shine in the rebellious light of those violet eyes, in the revolutionary angle of her defiant chin.


	5. Crushing and Choking

**Another warning: violence of a slightly more sexual nature**

* * *

"This is where you will report to me for work everyday henceforth, Officer," the Inspector gestured with his thick arm around his office. Small as it was, there was barely enough room in the cramped quarter for a stove, a window, a wastepaper basket, and in the center of his universe, a gleamingly polished oaken bureau, not a single offending object resting on its stripped top. Beside this ordered magnificence, however, a rickety table butted up to the bureau's side, barely large enough to hold the three flowing stacks of missives and papers filling its miniscule area.

In all of two strides, the Inspector crossed the room, pulled out his chair, and sat straight-backed behind his desk. The woman simply stood before him, her impassive face inanimate, but her eyes casted about the room, finally resting on the table to his right.

"And that is your desk," Javert smirked at the distained look that crossed her feminine face, "Every day, you will sign, stamp and sort missives and reports by case file and date."

She sat calmly on the three-legged stood beside him, and he smirked wider, "Judging by that pile, I suggest you start immediately."

"And what do you do, Inspector?" she did not turn her head to face her question to him, her hands beginning to wander through the papers and envelopes. Her voice barely changed in pitch with the question.

"Whatever my superiors order of me," his automatic response issued forth.

She sniffed a laughing breath, "The very model of discipline and obedience, Inspector Javert." His name in her voice sent a tainted, disgusting shiver through his core. "Is this all that constitutes my duty?" she demanded, her downcast eyes peering at him from their corners.

Averted eyes sent an immediate sneer to his lip; only those who were guilty and women used that deceptive trick. He turned his chair around to face her directly, amused as she reciprocated the action, her irritation barely escaping usual impenetrable complexion.

"I thought it was clear to you from our contract. You are to be the model of subservience to me, your superior," those green eyes narrowed ever so slightly as he returned her gaze, hardened as ever.

Cécelie's innards churned, knotting and writhing inside her. Irritation. Vexation. No man was completely in control, and Javert may be the strictest, flintiest dog of the law, but he was still a man. And she would prove it. To herself if not to him.

"_Monsieur l'Inspecteur_, I have already agreed to this position," those rounded shoulders relaxed their tension as she leaned faintly forward, making herself meet his eyes with her own. "I embrace your commands entirely, _Monsieur_," and she stood from her stool.

Javert jumped at the unexpected motion, at his feet in a flash, a sneer of distrust still beneath the surface of his face. To his surprise, the woman smiled sweetly, laughing softly, her face lit in pure humor and mirth. Her giggles died on her smile as she shook her head back and forth, her blonde tail of hair dancing behind her back. So palely blonde compared to her eyes. No. No matter what he noticed, he would not allow himself to give in. Didn't matter if she giggled or sobbed. Steadying his voice, he glared down at her, "Good. Because you know the consequences should you disobey me," he sneered, shaking his head, "I allow you here because you pose the most intriguing, perplexing puzzle, and you may yet become an asset to the force. But prove me wrong or cross me," his scowl darkened, "and you will wish you had died in that cell."

Her face refused to darken in reply, and her smile haunted him, unsettled him, spurned him. "Yes, _Monsieur_," she bowed her head slightly.

Why did the sunlight from the window have to reflect from her eyes like that, he cursed.

She dared a step closer, closing the distance between them. "Ask of me what you will; I will obey," her lips turned up in an alluring smirk, "Put me to the test, Inspector. Should you command me to sort every file in the _Préfecture_, I will do so." She stood just in front of him, close enough to hear and feel his breath on her face.

"Command me to execute a yard of prisoners, and it will be done." She noticed his eyes dart once over her from top to bottom, halting on her face once more. "Order me to press your uniform every night," she paused to bring her hands up towards his broad, square chest, "to shine your boots, to polish your brass buttons, and I will gladly do it" a single finger pressed the button just above his left chest, rubbing it, teasing it, spinning it circularly in motion as she tilted her head coyly towards him. His breath quickened, she heard, and still he did not pull away, push her away, or even look away. His gaze did not give sway.

With a silent snicker she leaned in closer for the kill; now he would be arrested, caught in her coquettish snare. She barely whispered as her face hovered just beside his ear, "Bid me to let you enter my chamber, to slide between my sheets," she leaned back, her mouth parted, her lips wet as she returned his brightened stare, "Demand that I suck you, bite you, lick you, fuck you… that will I do for you… and more," she slowly titled her head up towards him, bringing her mouth closer to his, close enough to feel his own breath pass between her lips.

A grunt and a debilitating pressure choking her neck.

With no warning, she felt herself mercilessly shoved into the air, her body thrown to the barren desktop with a deafening thud. Never once had those green eyes left her vision, and now they peered down at her. The full weight of the Inspector's brawn pinned her down to the unyielding wood, squeezing her every joint, crushing the breath from her lungs. His forearm, muscle and bone, pressed down across her neck, choking off what little breath she gasped from under his considerable size.

Slight hissing croaks escaped her throttled voice. Noises he hushed harshly, holding her firm beneath him. "Officer Rénauld," his whisper gravely and grating to her ear, "Presume to preempt my commands in this manner again, and I shall have you flogged." With a final jab down at her creamy throat, he sat up from her, directly readjusting his unformed, cocked and disordered from the action.

As he walked around the bureau, his boots waded through a sea of spilt papers—the missives and files from her table strewn across the floor. Must have fell when he took control. No matter. Stopping at attention just inside the door, he stared at the papered chaos that surrounded his office, the prone figure covering his desk; it made him laugh. She had yet to take a breath freely in her windpipe and would most likely be unable to do so for the next half an hour. Gagging and gasping, her hand tenderly felt over her neck, and her head fell to the side, those eyes wide in pain, burning with fury, shock and fear.

"It is time for my rounds in the prison cells. See that you clean this catastrophe before I return," he smirked as she nodded her compliance, another croak sounding in the motion. Hand gripping the doorknob, he glanced once more over his shoulder, catching her in the middle of lifting herself up. That loose hair cascading, half over her face, as she hissed in pain through a partially crushed throat.

"Or else," he added before whipping his head around and slamming the door shut behind him.


	6. Temptress

Measured steps echoed through the prison, clacking a slow, metered rhythm with each footfall. His solitary silence broke only once in a while, some half-naked prostitute or other innate screeching a shrill yell to his back as he passed on his beat. Women inmates he usually silenced with a single stare, and so his inspection in the bowels of the woman's prison usually afforded his best moments to think.

His thoughts were dark and slow, like the measuring of his march. Dispassionate, his face betrayed none of the inner torment that raged in his mind. His lips parted into a toothy sneer, his mind replaying what just transpired in his office.

She was so weak, so easy to grab and to pin, to lock up tightly with his body. Behind that distant mask of seduction, the charade of enigma, she feared him. And from now on, he would remind her of that healthy fear. Like the fear of God.

He could picture it now: her panic as she darted around the office, stacking the spilt papers, sorting them frantically. And once they were away, she'd grab a rag, a cloth, even just the hem of her dress, rubbing the polished top of his bureau clean, eradicating any scuffs or scratches from her fall…

From where he pinned her.

From where he could have taken her.

Will power, honest work, and self-control—he never relaxed his standards for himself on any account. And he certainly would not have given her that power; never would he ever allow her to believe for one moment that she could control him with seduction. As if a hundred thousand prostitutes of Paris hadn't already tried that on him.

No, he had done what was right, shown her her place and schooled her in obedience and holy fear.

'_Then why did you tremble the moment the door was shut?'_

Damn thoughts. He turned his gaze for a moment to silence a prisoner, her breasts naked and covered in filth, sagging over the torn neckline of her rags; her ear-splitting voice begging him to "be a dearie and let a woman go free to work." Imposed silence, he found, was contagious.

Not unlike desire. That temptress woman, her words hung in his brain, floating like a drown corpse in the river. Words sweetened with desire—hers were the first ever directed to him. Begging him to come to her, to let her...

Regardless, he knew them to be lies, calling to him like the voice of the Serpent in Eden. Temptation.

_But hadn't she still clung to you as you barely refrained from choking the life from her body? _

A shiver ran up from between his thighs. None of that, he told himself. Those that take what they want for themselves lose it in the end or before long. Stealing is a crime.

He reached the opposite wall of the hallway. Spinning around on his heel, he began the patrol back. The cries and shrieks of solicitation increased, but their howling and mewling barely registered to his mind, as guarded and occupied as it was. Their noises passed over him like silence, but their filthy, disgusting, abused bodies, huddling and crouching in their cells, only inspired darker more sinful thoughts.

Passing each cell, he thoughtlessly compared their sullied corpuses to another's—that one that he could not force from his mind. Breasts, defiled, bruised and bare, were nothing like those milk-white rounded mounds, so perfectly pink in the center. Another's hair, ratted and snarled could not even remotely compare to her long, undulating sheaf of straw-colored silk. And each pair of eyes never so much as drew his attention like those blue eyes, so intense in gaze and color, so insupportably insubordinate in defiance, so glittering in her games of attempted flirtation.

Her advances he had ended with a firm and iron denial. _But do you really think that will stop her from attempting the same again? Don't you think she realized that by pinning her down, body along body, your heroics were just a form of encouragement?_

He had to remove this desire, this aura of seduction from her. And by taking her, he'd take away the incentive. Yes, he smirked at his conclusion. That was the answer.

If he controlled everything about her, then there would be nothing about her to use over him. Not giving in to her flirtations and dirty suggestions, but possessing the very source from which they came.

Possessing her.


	7. Not Unpleasurable

**Author's warning: I make good on my promises. Content of a highly sexual nature.**

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* * *

**

The tallow of her sputtering candle dripped slowly from its melted, deformed mouth. Yellow wax pooled on the crude tabletop… _drip… drip… drip_. Barely enough light flickered from the flame to cast the darkest shadows around her small bedchamber.

And Cécelie sat on the covers to her bed, half undressed from her petticoats, her short-stayed corset already cast aside to the simple wooden chair. Her knees bent under her, she took a ratted old brush to her hair, trying to make its bent and cracking fibers push through the thick strands of her own, taking her fingers to the snarls that were too tough for its weakened, aged strength.

Shaking, her hand ran through her locks over and over again, her mind still caught up in the day's actions; _Get control_, she told herself. _ He stayed away the rest of the day just to manipulate you, throw you off guard. Get control._ _It's not like you to quiver and twitch in fear, and you never for one second supposed the Inspector to be a weak-minded man._

Not like her husband, that dead bastard. In a jolt of rage at his memory, the wooden handle of the hairbrush cracked from the sudden strength of her grip, ending the life of the useless object in the first place. Little good it served her whole, she shrugged.

Life had been various stages of hell to begin with anyway; a life at the beck and call of a heartless policeman, where a broken hairbrush becomes a luxury might as well be her equivalent to heaven at this rate.

She threw the wooden handle across the room in the dark, unable to so much as see where it hit the wall and clattered to the floor. It made a thin knocking on the wooden floor.

Followed by a rapid, heavy knocking at her door. Cécelie grabbed the dying candle from her nightstand and crossed the room, careful not to let the flame gut out. In the failing light, she cracked the wooden door open just a bit. A flash of emerald flickered in the shadows above her head, and she peered into his face. Severe as ever and harsh. His square jaw clenched tightly beneath his thick sideburns, his brows weighing down heavily over his half-lidded eyes. And his lips remained flattened firmly together. His wide-brimmed hat, however, was missing from the crown of his head, revealing his brown hair pulled strictly from his face, tied somewhere behind his back in a ribbon unseen.

She waited for him to speak, her heart racing out of control. Surely this was about earlier. Why else would he be here but to punish her, having proven himself devoid of all manly motives.

His thick sturdy hand braced against the edge of the door, forcing it to open wide enough for him to enter. As he passed the candle in her hand, the flame flickered out, dying in the disturbed air of his wake.

In the darkness, she squinted to locate his face, finding him in shadow by the heaviness of his breath rather than by sight.

More silence. Not even a movement from her visitor. Finally, she dared him a question. "Inspector, I cleaned the papers from the floor. I followed your instructions to the letter, _Monsieur_," her voice sounded strangely calm even to her own ears.

"You did," his voice barely above a whisper.

His breathing deepened, or was it growing louder because he was approaching.

"If you're looking for an apology, _Monsieur_, I give it freely," she continued to the darkened void.

Now his voice came from beside her, closer. He was moving about her with not so much a sound, years of practicing this silence to catch his criminals. To stalk his prey. "As freely as you profess to give of yourself, Rénauld?"

She spun to face the voice again, but without her candle, seeing anything was hopeless for her in the night's darkness.

From directly behind her, a hand reached into her hair, grabbing a handful of blonde and spinning her around wildly. Sharpest pain seared through her scalp as she was dragged towards her bed, stumbling through her own tiny room. In the light of the small window, she finally saw his face, just for a moment before he flung her across the covers. Better adjusted to the darkness, better lit closer to the window, she could only watch as the Inspector's fingers removed each button to his uniform jacket rapidly, mechanically and meticulously, flinging it to the floor's shadows.

"Show yourself to me," he commanded.

Cécelie hesitated just an instant as she sat up on the bed, unsure what to make of this. Not moments ago, she thought herself worthy of a flogging for less than this.

"Show yourself to ME!" he snarled, pulling the cravat from his throat with one hand, the other working over the buttons to his waistcoat. Both he let fall at his feet.

Her hands tugged the final layer of petticoat from her hips, next removing her thin undergarment from over her head. There, she stood naked before him in the darkness, just as she had that same morning. Only this time, she shivered in the evening chill, feeling her skin pricking and pimpling in the cold. She shook it away, and taking a deep breath, she climbed to the edge of the bed, resting back on her heels beneath her as he dropped his trousers to his ankles, passing over the white chemise he still wore.

"Give me your hand," another growl. And she felt him grope down her arm to clutch her by the hand, pressing her palm to the base of his penis, wrapping her fingers around him. She raised a brow at just how thick he was around, running lightly down his shaft to discover he was equally impressive in length.

"It would seem your Billy club is not the only large rod you carry, Inspector," her mood lightened for a moment, glad he reconsidered her offer free from retribution.

"Shut up," his other hand clutched back into the base of her scalp, "No more words." He threw her down on the bed, pinning her beneath him again, and a constricting tightness filled his chest. No more words, no more looks, no more touching himself to end this.

His hand between her legs, he spread her thighs wider beneath him, pressing his hand harshly between her folds, finally jabbing deep into her vagina with his thumb. Now he knew where to pierce.

She writhed at the pressure, "_Monsieur…_" she began to speak. But he clapped a large hand over her gaping, simpering mouth, willing her into silence with his iron-wrought stare. She mumbled into his palm, trying still to speak, but his grip was firm.

He thrusted violently into her, barely knowing exactly what his body craved. And at the warmth, the wetness, the pleasure he felt, he understood why he had denied this of himself for so long. Grinding his teeth together, he looked down at the space between their bodies, watching as the swell of her breasts heaved and shook with her gasping breath. Beautiful like cream, he denied himself to touch them, forcing his eyes away from their enticing fullness, focusing his gaze at the base of her neck instead. That neck he so often envisioned in irons again, in reality and in fantasy. Now she was as good as shackled, with him swelling, pressing, penetrating inside her.

As he thrusted again and again, she laughed morosely to herself; she'd suffocate beneath his grip before she'd ever begin to enjoy his labored fucking. The weight on her chest, the weight on her mouth. All of it choked. Filled her with unbearable, delicious pain.

Like an animal, he grunted with each plunge, his rhythm constant and metrical. She'd have laughed at his form if she could breathe. She closed her eyes, finally feeling his hand slip away from her nose as his fucking sped up.

It was not unpleasurable, to feel him glide in and out, filling her past the threshold of comfort. Forceful and hurried, he drove as deep as he could into her each time, the sound of flesh slapping against flesh deadened her senses, as rhythmic as his beating was inside her.

Thrusting faster and faster, he knew enough to realize his release was close. And that was when he felt her voice moan beneath his hand, and her body contracted around his cock from the inside. Uncontrollable, he shuddered and spasmed, hitching in his metered beat with a growling groan. His thoughts blurred, pressure leaving him as he emptied himself, fighting to not be overcome with warmth and exhaustion. Heart racing, legs trembling, he dared to look up from her neck, finding her eyes opening to his. Despite the damnable dark, he knew just how searchingly blue those eyes were. His lip turned down into a scowl as he withdrew from her, standing from the bed and pulling his trousers back around his waist from his feet.

She was wet, and she hurt from his lack of care with her, but she managed to sit on the edge of the bed. Coldly and silently, she watched him dress with attention to every last detail of his appearance. Each button was fastened perfectly in place, his shirt flawlessly tucked inside the top of his trousers, his cravat meticulously knotted and wrapped around his thick neck. The only piece amiss was a single strand of dark hair that had escaped from his tail with all his exertion.

He made the slightest motion to go, his boots still miraculously silent on the wooden planks of her floor.

"_Monsieur l'Inspecteur_," she spoke, her voice steady, hiding a slight lilt she felt was due. "I take it this means I won't be due a flogging for earlier."

"No, you are mistaken yet again, Rénauld," he spun around at the foot of her bed, the faintest of starlight just catching his face enough to make the cruelty in his eyes and in his sneer visible. "What I ordered still stands. Ever dare to make unwarranted solicitations of that nature again, and you will find yourself extremely uncomfortable lying on your back."

He opened the door, "And be sure I would take every advantage of your pains." Then he shut it tightly behind him, victorious.


	8. Tearstreaked

**Yet another warning: disturbing memories stirred in sleep**

* * *

"_What is the meaning of this?" a voice from the dead growled at her. A finger jammed into her vagina twisting and torquing inside her. There was no resistance over her entrance, no skin for a husband to break to fully claim his new wife. "My noble-blooded, maiden wife… revealed as nothing more than a common whore on her wedding night," his nail dug painfully across the top of her canal, scratching painfully into her most sensitive of areas._

_Stifling her cries, she squirmed in torture; her breath came harshly, and her heart beat rapidly in her chest, pounding in her ears and pulsing through her veins. Her eyes frantically darted around the grand bedchamber, the roaring fire in the grate beside the bed, the dripping candelabra on the nightstand, and the flimsy, gauzy bed curtains, hovering at every angle around where she lay naked across the covers. Through her catching breaths, she spoke quickly, "I told you, Thibault. I was a foolish child. I confessed to you long ago about my girlish affair with my music tutor. I told you I loved Jehan, and that my parents had him dismissed when they knew."_

_Thibault, Compte de Rénauld, gouged his fingernail into her center of pleasure, watching in satisfaction as his new wife writhed and contorted in agony, "A girlish mistake that turned you into a woman," he scratched harder, making her scream this time. "How old were you when you betrayed me?"_

"_I... never… betrayed you," her voice trembled, hushed and frightened._

"_Answer me," he pinched her clit between his fingers, digging nails into it on either side, wanting to squeeze her every chance of pleasure from it. _

_She cried out loud as pain shot through her, "Seventeen," she screamed in middle of her in articulate cry. _

"_Whore," his shadow roared from where he knelt on the bed between her legs, "Filthy slut." He grabbed her by the shoulder and pulled her to sit before him. "Small wonder that your parents arranged for your betrothal to me when they knew both their days were numbered. Pass off the used goods as quickly as they could." Her eyes glowed in the dim light—eyes that had pleased him only repulsed him now as tears streamed from their blue centers. _

_With a pitiless shine in his face, her husband struck her across the tear-soaked cheek, hard enough to throw her naked body crumpling to one side in recoil. Weeping and panting, her hand drew quickly to cradle the pain in her jaw, "I chose to marry you, Thibault," she managed to speak between wracking sobs, "You willingly asked me for my hand, even after I had hid nothing from you."_

"_Nor will you ever again, Cécelie, if you want to avoid my retribution in the future," she felt his burning hands turn her completely onto her stomach, arms wrapping around her unseen from behind. One wrestled her down at the shoulder, the other cocked her hips up towards him from under, leaning her forward on her knees. "You bring this to yourself," she felt his mouth at her ear as his hand wandered from her back to her right breast, wrenching it painfully in his grasp. "And as you already bear the sign of a married woman between your legs, I must take my pleasure from you in a different place."_

"_No," she whispered as her cheek pressed into the feathered mattress, unsure of his meaning, "Please, no Thibault." She turned her face into the bed, screaming at the top of her lungs as he entered her ass. It stretched, it burned, it blinded her in agony strong enough to send her senses spinning. Like he was cleaving her in two, pushing his way through her from the smallest entryway possible. _

_She screamed louder, begging God to make him stop, repeating her words over and over into the down beneath her face. It killed with each thrust, making her sick to her stomach, sick through her very core, sick at her heart. Her mind slipped away, going blank, and her eyes opened as they pressed into the white of the sheets. Blank white, pure white. And she began to count each time her stomach coiled in pain, numbering each of his cruel thrusts. Nothing existed beyond those numbers, she told herself between screams. _

Choking and wheezing, Cécelie jolted up in her bed. In her small, boring room. In the Paris _Préfecture_.

She caught her breath, her trembling hands clutched tightly around fistfuls of bed sheets on either side of her. Eyes glued gaping wide, she lowered herself back down slowly.

At least she could thank God that was over. That bastard was dead and gone.

A slow gurgling growl sounded from her stomach, and so she sat up again, dressing and cleaning herself from the events of last night, the skin between her legs still red and swollen from the Inspector's forceful… attentions.

Smiling to herself, she hoped a hot croissant and steaming coffee to break her fast with waited for her down in the mess hall this morning. Then to return to work in that perfectly organized, flawlessly tidy room of an office.


	9. Personal

**Pardon the plot, if you please. **

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* * *

**

Damned woman, Javert cursed under his breath; typical of her to squander away her time and report late for her morning duties. Insolate. Willful. Perverse. He caught himself smirking, considering if this infringement of the rules deserved punishment. She should have learned her lesson by now. But perhaps it was a lesson to be taught multiple times.

His head unmoving, his eyes darted to the missives on her table, and then back to the firmly shut door. Reaching into the breast pocket of his jacket, he retrieved his pocket watch, its perfectly spotless gold casing gleaming from polish. With a snap, the lid flicked open. Two minutes late already.

One hand cupped the watch before his face, and with his free hand, his finger marked out each second that passed, tapping in time as the thin wire hand traveled through its small circumference. Another forty-two seconds passed before the brass doorknob twisted around. Javert kept his eyes on his watch, observing from the corner of his eye for the exact moment the door shut behind her. "Two minutes and forty-six seconds, Rénauld," he announced clearly, attentively closing the watch and replacing it in his pocket.

"_Pardonnez-moi, Monsieur_?" Cécelie asked, taken slightly aback by his diverted glare, his single arched brow and the condescending upwards turn of his squared chin.

"Two minutes and forty-six seconds past your shift. I expect perfect punctuality from my subordinates," he chastised her, "And you should know well enough now not to fall short of my expectations." Narrowing his eyes, he finally focused every ounce of their discontent on her, his thick brow arching even higher as he observed the steaming china cup and saucer in her hand, noticing the scent of coffee suddenly present in the room. "What is that?" he snapped in vexation.

Her smile dared tentatively across her mouth, "I brought you a cup of coffee, _Monsieur_…" Another one of his dark, reproachful scowls stopped her short.

Standing abruptly from his desk, he crossed the room, and Cécelie could distinctly hear the low growl that reverberated from the back of his throat. He drew to a halt just before her. And suspicion filled his cold stare, she could read that much from those pale eyes.

Impassive as ever, she explained herself, "In an effort to demonstrate my goodwill and supplication towards you, I thought I'd bring you something from the mess hall," she offered up the steaming fine china cup, gently turning it by its thin handle around on its saucer with her other hand, "I figured you likely to take your coffee black, _Monsieur_." She smiled faintly, "I hope my generosity pardons me for my tardiness, Inspector. It won't happen again."

He sniffed in contempt, taking the teacup in his thick fingers nonetheless, "See that it doesn't, Rénauld." His back turned to her once more, he glanced down into the cup; he did, in fact, take his coffee black when he allowed himself the drink. A smiled crept over the corner of his lip as he took a sip of heat and aroma pouring from the cup.

Perhaps he could break her yet. If given the opportunity. Not wanting to risk any stain to desktop or paper, he continued to sip repeatedly from the cup standing before his desk, gazing out the window into the early spring morning. He relished the sound of orderly silence as she began her office duties: the distinct and constant rustling of paper, the soft drone of breathing, the efficient rhythmic tapping of paper-edges to create neat and organized stacks. It fed his fastidious nature. And he breathed it in.

Between systematic sips, he felt her eyes dart up from where she perched rigidly behind her desk. Finished with his coffee, he set the porcelain down on the inactive stove, savoring how the pure china somehow signaled his success and her submission. But as he turned towards he desk, he caught the full bearing of her crystalline gaze—those violet-blue eyes glinting with darker intentions rather lower on his anatomy than he deemed necessary.

Cécelie couldn't help the coquettish smile that crossed her face at being caught. There was something stirring in the way that navy uniformed jacket cut so squarely over his hips, the manner in which the thick fabric of his trousers did nothing to hide the thing that made him more of a man than she ever anticipated. Licking her lip, she looked back down at reports, listening to his footsteps cross behind his desk to resume his officiating seat. With a scrape across the floor, he pulled his chair fully beneath his desk. Deliberate, she smirked to herself; he was no fool and not so unobservant as most. But she was never one to shy away.

Loudly, she cleared her throat, "Inspector." He responded with an acknowledging grunt, his attention still drawn by the files in his hands.

"About last night..." she continued.

At her words, he grew immediately rigid in his seat, his inhale audible from beside her. He cocked his head to the side, his eyes half closed but nonetheless brutal in their emerald intensity.

Cécelie smiled calmly as she spoke, "Pardon me if I am insubordinately forward, but I need to fully know how the lines are drawn, _Monsieur_. What behaviors warrant punishment," her coquettish grin teased her mouth, "and which illicit a response like last night?" She watched as his jaw flexed in clenching, goading her to continue, "How do I stand in all this, for I already am well aware of exactly how you… stand."

Javert did not squirm, did not stir, did not so much as twitch an eyelash at her brazen behavior. He knew his next move to controlling her. "Officer," he began coolly, confidently, "You really should concern yourself with more pressing matters." The paper file slid smoothly over the desk to her, flicked gently by the tips of his fingers.

Stopping its motion with an outreached hand, Cécelie angled the letter towards her, racing her eyes over the jagged, slanted scrawl of the file. Only a name registered in her mind in the middle of the page. She issued a contemptuous sniff. "_Par Dieu_," her whisper scornful, "it would be him."

"I thought my latest case might pique your interest, seeing as how you already have history with the criminal," his voice rattled in a deep chuckle; he had leaned against the wooden chair back, turned towards her in his seat, his ankle crossed over his knee, his hands gripping the arms of his chair firmly, and his head tilted back in an angle of arrogance.

She managed to maintain her calm appearance, not betraying the inward pounding of her heart, the fire of bloodlust in her veins. "You ask of me questions you already know the answers to, Inspector Javert. You understand I would do everything to bring… this man… to personal justice," she could not bring herself to so much as utter his name. Her shoulders lifted in a rigid shrug, "So I might as well do everything in my power to bring him to justice under the law."

"You have yet to prove yourself extraordinarily useful to the force," Javert's eyes barely moved from her livid, flushing face, "but I do not doubt you have talents that are yet to be seen, Rénauld."

"You have no idea, Inspector," she laughed violently.

She would have Justice, if only by extension. Deprived of revenge against the man who had so long ruined her life in marriage, she now had the next best thing: the man who drove her deplorable husband to his death. Revenge could be sweet. Revenge could be equal. Revenge was what she craved.


	10. Derisive

**Continued...**

* * *

"With your cooperation, Rénauld, Jacques Tournot will take the stand and be executed for extortion and murder," Javert grabbed the file back into his hands, turning each page slowly.

Looking up, he sneered in amusement; her face still burned with anger as her eyes fixed on the papers. Ruby lips drew back into a toothy sneer, like a cornered animal, threatened and determined to kill. "Do not speak his name," her anger seethed against each word. "You have no idea of the control that slime-ridden, plague-infested son-of-a-whore had over my former husband… the hell I was put through by extension as the man I had married felt his world darkening..."

"Actually," he interrupted, already growing sick of her rants, "I have every idea of his criminal associations with the late Compte de Rénauld," his fingers turned through the case file. Cécelie's sneer fell away, leaning closer in an attempt to read the document, which the Inspector gratifyingly pushed closer to her,

"I am never slipshod in my investigations, thus much of our evidence was uncovered as we sorted out the affair of your husband's murder." His thick brow arched high as he noticed her hands trembling to turn the bottom pages of the file. Those that recounted the murder investigation.

A derisive laugh issued from her beside him. "I could tell you more than you know, Inspector, and even more than you would ever care to hear. Thibault's depravity knew no limits, _Monsieur_. He deserved to die a worse death than he did."

"The laws of life and death are not for you to decide, Officer."

Another contemptuous, grating laugh, "No, I never had power over that bastard in life, why should I have in his death," her hand gripped the corner of her table tightly, her knuckles blanched and trembled as she spoke. "The law bound me to that man in marriage, stripped me of my family's fortune, robbed me of decency, and placed my life, my happiness in the hands of a drunk, a debauched devil who never hesitated to cause in me as much corporal pain as he so desired."

The Inspector drew his head back at this, but said nothing. Even he could feel the pressure that strained the floodgates of the woman before him.

Cécelie drew in a shaky breath, and looking up into his face, she found no judgment, but no mercy either, and she sniff in derision. "You don't care, Inspector. The abuses of a wife mean nothing under the law after all. A man cannot go to prison for taking what is rightfully his in his marriage bed. A man cannot be arrested for beating his pregnant wife so harshly just before her term that as a result, she miscarries the baby and has her stomach carved open to remove the dead flesh inside her," her eyes looked to the ceiling, and her hand fell from the table into her lap, pressing into her lower stomach. And Javert remembered the scar that marked her skin there.

Relentless, her words continued to pour forth, "A man cannot be prosecuted for gambling and drinking away an entire fortune, then borrowing money from gangs and criminals to play the tables just a bit more."

At this, Javert opened his mouth to correct her assessment, but she continued mercilessly on. "No, you mean to tell me," she shook her head, "I know it is against the law, but when do lawmen, like you, ever actually think about arresting men who descend from a lineage and money and titles? No, Thibault never would have seen a day in court. But I have," her face blank in emotion at her last words, "Oh yes, I have," she repeated almost in monotone.

"Enough," he brusquely ordered her just as she took another breath to begin a new. Her mouth shut firmly, pursing into her own tight scowl. Pulling the file from under her hand, he huffed and spoke steadily; her cooperation in this case was a matter of integral importance, and his chances of success were certainly higher should she volunteer it willingly. His posture erect, he peered down at her along his nose, watching the fire in her eyes struggling to settle.

He cleared his throat, "From what you've said, it seems to me you have no objections to compliance with my plans, only a multitude of supporting reasons. Do you agree?"

Muted by her own words, Cécelie nodded in reply.

"And so you would agree to perform whatever duty I order you in the capture of Jacques Tournot?" He stifled a smirk, watching how that name sent a visible shudder through her shoulders. Again, she nodded.

"I need your acquiescence verbalized, Officer, or it does me no good," Javert stood from his desk, gathering the file's papers in his hands.

"Yes, Inspector," her voice settled into monotone once more.

"Good," he smirked, tucking the file under his arm as he walked around to the front of the desk, "then you will have no objection to infiltrating one of his closest circles. My plan, as of yet, still requires the Commissioner's approval, but I do not doubt he will think it my best trap yet."

Cécelie lifted her head, catching his intent gaze in her own. She nodded, "A trap with me as the bait, Inspector?"

"Not bait, Officer," he shook his head once before grabbing his bi-cornered hat from its proper hook on the wall, "You will be the man on the inside," his thick brows lifted as he laughed coldly, "or in this case, the woman on the inside." The hat he placed on his head, only after fixing the tricolor rosette on its black front panel; "After having Tournot followed extensively, I've had him trailed to the same whorehouse week after week, each and every Thursday night. Negotiations with the establishment's matron were successful, and she has agreed to allow us to capture Tournot, and in exchange, the force has agreed not to close her business… this time," his mouth drew back into a cruel grin, a lupine smile; he had every intent to the contrary for the future.

"_Alors,_ Inspector, what would you have me do?" Cécelie's impassive mask had returned on her delicate features.

"I would have you attend to your work here while I sort out the details with the Commissioner," and with a click of his heels, he turned in place and opened the door.

"Wait, _Monsieur l'Inspecteur_," her voice commanded him firmly, quickly rising from her seat and crossing to stand beside where he had frozen mid stride in the doorway. His narrowed eyes sparked with anger at her insolence, but she continued her request nevertheless. "Please, _Monsieur_, I was intending to purchase some items for myself today. I have nothing I require after my stay in prison, and it would not take me very long to leave… with your permission," coating her request with a demure, supplicating smile.

His smoldering stare darkened, "With what money, Rénauld?"

Her chin tilted ever so slightly in defiance, and she chuckled quietly, "I'm not going to steal anything, if that is your implication, Inspector. I have money set aside, of course. I was something of an aristocratic debutant before I submitted myself to you, _Monsieur_," those lips parted alluringly.

"No," he sniffed roughly, shaking his head once at her, "You really have learned nothing about following my orders. You will remain here, and if you still intend to acquire those things you need, inform the errand boys. That is their duty, and to remain here is yours now." Pulling the door behind him, he was tempted to grab his keys from his belt and lock her in, an urge he fought with a growl in his throat. "I will return directly from the Commissioner to inform you fully of my plan," that forward gleam in her eye and parted lips sent a disdainful smile to his mouth, "and Lord help you should you not be here."

The door shut, Cécelie folded her arms over the brass buttons of her own tight-cut uniform. That sounded like a challenge if anything, she smirked.


	11. Snotnosed

"But _Monsieur le Commissionaire_…"

"Inspector Javert," Commissioner Maurice Genot stood from his bureau, "with all due respect to you, I would advise against this plan of yours," his fat hand ran around the top edge of his balding head, "However, that does not mean I will not sign off on the warrant. But I do so with a serious encouragement for you to reconsider in just what manner you use that new lackey of yours. She has been officially in the service for little over a day now, and you intend to plant her as one of this whorehouse's employees, using her to get a confession from Tournot during their… _tête-à-tête_ encounter. It seems risky to me, Javert, but I trust your judgment."

Javert bowed his head slightly in reverence, "I thank you, _Monsieur_, but I have little doubt that Officer Rénauld will rise to the occasion."

The Commissioner grabbed his quill and pulled the warrant on his desktop before him, "But you do maintain some doubt, Javert."

Javert remained silent, only nodding in reply once his superior's gaze pushed the point as he looked up from the document. He forced as reassuring of a smile as he was capable of, "Regardless, I am confident in my plan, _Monsieur le Commissionaire_, so long as you do not order me to do otherwise."

Commissioner Genot shrugged in reply, yet he couldn't help but wince as he crossed the T of his signature. "You will find plenty of discarded and collected clothing to choose from for the woman's disguise. Somehow prostitutes tend to forget their effects and accessories when they're freed from our prison cells, not that they ever enter with much to begin with, mind you." He set the quill back in its inkpot, and looking up, something about the Inspector caught his eye. He noticed a variable difference in sheen to his Inspector's eyes and the slightest of change in the man's jaw line. They both seemed softer than was so strikingly customary for him before. Reaching across his bureau, the Commissioner proffered the signed warrant, which Javert took with keen excitement.

"I will assemble a force of men tomorrow for Tournot's arrest," Javert spoke quickly as he neatly folded the paper in quarters and placed it in his breast pocket, "and Thursday will see my plan as I have described to you. Should any changes be necessary, I will of course inform you, _Monsieur_."

"Yes, yes, Javert; I expect nothing less from you," Genot waved him in dismissal from his room, "Now go find what clothing… or lack thereof... you require from the guards. I'm sure the former _Comptesse_ will make for a stunningly irresistible whore, especially once she's…"

"Of course, _Monsieur_," Javert replied in such forceful rapidity that Genot lost his train of thought. His jaw clenched tightly, his stance was wide and stiff, and his hands he clasped firmly behind his back—the Inspector was every inch at attention. However, Commissioner Genot noticed that spark behind his green eyes flicker and glow brighter; he had touched a nerve somewhere underneath the Inspector's hardened exterior.

Javert drew his legs together, bowing deeply at the waist before replacing his bicorn on his dark hair, "Now, pardon me, Commissioner Genot, if you please. I will find what materials I require, as you have suggested." The door shut with a firm slam behind him.

Seating his large self back down in his chair, Genot's pudgy fingers scratched and ran over his stubbly chin. The Inspector had been in Paris for years already and risen smartly through the ranks, but it had been a long time even since his arrival, that he last observed such variations in the man's attitudes. The last incidence had been in reference to some affair to do with the back garden wall of a convent somewhere in the city, but that was long ago. Something new had stimulated the man's enthusiasm and dogged attention, and he doubted it was the minor criminal Javert planned to bring to justice next.

###

"Here now, _gamin_, where do you think you're going?" Javert called down the hallway to his office, irate to find one of the _Préfecture's_ sooty, filthy errand boys about to open his door. Striding quickly over, he took careful note of the large brown paper sack in the brat's arm. Snot-nosed and trembling, the boy shied from the door instantly, grabbing his battered cap in one hand and doffing it clumsily in respect for the Inspector.

In his raging march down the hall, Javert had pulled his truncheon from its place at his side, and now, as he glared down at the urchin, he tapped it slowly and rhythmically into the palm of his hand. And he sneered wider, watching the boy's face wince with each muted beat. At least the brat had reverence for his superiors. "Well, _gamin_? Speak up and answer my question."

"P-please,Inspector Javert. I'm only following orders here," the kid wiped away snot with his filthy free hand.

With his club, he opened the top of the sack wider, peering into to its contents, "Whose orders?"

"That woman officer you've got now, Inspector. Gave me a whole ten francs to purchase what she wanted," the boy shied away as Javert prodded deeper with his club into the bag to see the items. A cheap bar of common soap, spools of ribbon, a small, course hairbrush, common towel cloth, all meaningless items a woman like her _would_ need, he sneered. The boy smiled as he stepped away, closing the bag from the policeman, "Said I could keep the change, so naturally I may have purchased her items on the cheaper end. Made a whole five francs myself, I did."

"Give that bag to me, boy," Javert replaced his truncheon, ripping the sack from the brat's weak grasp, ignoring his complaining, grating whine. "She told you to bring her items into _my_ office, did she?"

The boy nodded, and the Inspector's jaw clenched in vexation; how he hated to have his spaces treated in such a vile, disrespectful manner. "About your business, boy," he dismissed him, waiting until the urchin had turned the opposite corner before grasping the door handle himself.

But, pulling up sharply, he remembered himself. He still required that damned clothing for her disguise. Fetch that now, and deposit both rags and sack in her chamber for her use later. Yes, he thought to himself as his hand slipped silently from the handle, let her attend on him a bit longer in there. A further lesson in patience and obedience. He nodded firmly to himself before strutting off in the direction of the guards' quarters for a fitting costume.

If only he had paused a bit longer outside his own office, perhaps he would have noticed the inner silence, the audible stillness like death that filled his unoccupied office.


	12. Purpled

**Another warning: **_Another chapter of violence of a sexual nature. I give you the foreplay section of a two part sequence. _

* * *

Bag of products in one hand, an armful of filthy and torn rags in the other, Javert made his way up the attic stairs to the uppermost landing of the Paris _Préfecture_, a hall full of rooms for men on duty and off to use as quarters. This had become his solitary home for the past however-many years. Solitary that is until she came.

Turning down the corner, he passed his chamber door, halting at the neighboring room. Her room, he sneered for a split second. Noises of motion within set the hair at the back of his neck on end: rustling fabrics, clinking glass, and… humming, he noted with thick and dark furrowed brows. Juggling the sack to the other arm, he threw open the door, unsurprised and glowering to catch Cécelie in direct defiance of his order.

She cried softly at the unexpected intrusion as Javert burst through the door, but her alarm soon melted back into her alluring passivity. "Ah, Inspector, you are just in time," she smirked slyly, pressing the interior of her wrists to her nose in turn.

"In time to discover your deception and disregard for my orders... yet again," he sneered widely, his teeth startling visible, his eyes terribly green. He roughly set the paper sack and the clothing down on the seat of the nearest wooden-framed chair. "You are a complete disgrace to order, a complete violation of authority," he growled, crossing over to where she stood to the side of her bedside.

"Yes, but at least I'm a disgrace that smells deliciously of perfumes. You _are_ indeed in time, Inspector, for I just can't tell which of my new scents works best on my skin. What is your opinion?" she pressed her wrists alternately to her nose again before casting another flirtatious smile up at him, offering her fisted hands and perfumed wrists towards him.

Javert gripped them tightly in his own hands, squeezing them until he felt the bones flexing beneath. "Why should my opinion matter to you," his grating voice sounding between clenched teeth, "you have no regard for me. You violate my commands each and every time. I tell you to remain in my office, and I find you here."

Cécelie smiled wider as his grip tightened even more, gasping quietly as he bore down on her, bending her wrists backwards. "Yes, _Monsieur_, you have every right to punish my insolence. It is your duty."

Stopping himself, he looked past her to the small vanity table, its narrow area covered completely with crystal bottles of perfume, glass jars of creams, spools of silk ribbon, pots of powders and tints. Javert paused, for he did in fact notice the scents of roses and lavender floating from the skin of her wrists. His eyes flashed brightly in rage, barely suppressed by his discipline. "Where did you get that?" he nodded over her right shoulder to the crude vanity table.

She shrugged slightly in his grip, "You can't expect me to have trusted the poor errand boy to get precisely what I wanted. I went out to the shops myself, of course, but, nevertheless I sent him out to appease you," her defiant half-smile made her eyes narrow slightly over their deep blue.

"You care about what I expect, Rénauld? About what appeases me?" his words hissed between his teeth, and he threw a withering glare over his shoulder to the paper sack that sat exactly where he had disposed of it. Where it sat on top of the discarded dresses and garments he had attained for her, and these rags only increased his sneer, "Why should I trust you to capture the one man in Paris you would like nothing better than to see brought to justice?"

"Well, there are other things I would like to see better, _Monsieur_. You again, for instance," she interrupted teasingly, stepping close to him, running her bent and raised knee slightly up along the inner side of his thigh.

His fingers released her ivory wrists as he shoved her away, bringing the back of his hand smartly across her upturned cheek with a loud slap. Head cocked to the side from the impact, blonde hair spilling loose from the very side of the long queue that ran down her back, Javert heard the smallest, deepest chuckle in her throat. Her hand traced over her flushing cheek, and she turned to look back at his stone-cold stare. A slight trickle of crimson blood pooled at the corner of her lips.

She licked it away and smiled; her unabashed, unashamed gaze dared him to go further. "Surely," her voice lilted in its low tones, "my offense deserves more than that, Inspector."

Javert clenched his fists at his side, "Your offense deserves no less than a beating from your superiors," his voice retained its toothy hiss.

"But, Inspector, that is undoubtedly you," she wiped the corner of her mouth with a single finger, her sneer growing darker with each word, "or are you not so confident in your own power to execute my punishment out yourself," her eyes flashed wider, "_Monsieur_."

She breathed a laugh to herself, observing his right fist flex and toy with the handle of his truncheon, which hung down from his belt. "Punish me now, _Monsieur_, and I promise to obey you to the letter henceforth."

"That is a promise you have already given and broken, all for a sack of trivialities and perfumes." His hand flexed visibly once more, and his jaw clenched tightly beneath his thick brown sideburns.

Cécelie laughed musically, "Women will need their trivialities, _Monsieur_. Surely you don't begrudge me the scent of roses?"

Glowering and dark, Javert reached for the truncheon at his side. "Strip off your petticoats, and only your petticoats" he ordered, as he meticulously set his hat down on the same chair wooden chair by the door.

She tilted her head slightly back at his request, her thin eyebrows raised in twisted curiosity at just what he had in mind. Her undergarments slid off easily from under the thick, navy wool of her uniformed dress. Letting them fall at her feet, she heard the jingling of metal, the metallic fall of chains unlinking.

Two sets of shackles hung from one hand, the other clutched his truncheon tightly. "You will follow authority, you will bend yourself to the law, as hard as that might be for you," his voice spoke clearly, declaiming his lesson for her to heed.

"Only as hard as you are for me," she whispered, seating herself on the edge of her bed, spreading her legs wide apart, and patting the mattress between her knees with a flick of her wrist.

His head shook slowly from side to side, "Not this time." He crossed over to her, pinning the length of his club under his arm as he took a set of chains in each hand. "Lie on your stomach diagonally across the bed," his smile was terrible and toothy.

With a sigh, Cécelie complied, a smile on her face the whole while as she stretched out, resting her head on her folded arms. One cuff locked around her right foot tightly, then around her left. Glancing over her shoulder, she caught his threatening eyes watching her every move, his hands securing the chain running between her ankles around the tall and squat oaken poster of her bed.

Laughing, she laid her head back across her hands; she knew his game already. And sure enough, he stalked around the edge of the bed to her head, seizing her wrists and clasping her right hand in metal. He roughly pulled her arm straight over her head, stretching her taught over the sheets as he wrapped the chains around the closest poster to her head. With a final click around her other wrist, she was secured, she was spread, she was trapped.

Javert breathed deeply as he moved to the foot of her bed, just beside her bound ankles. As much as it thrilled him to see crime punished, this was not for his own pleasure, he reminded himself, clenching his open hand into a tight fist, deliberately digging his own nails into the fleshy heel of his palm. With the top of his truncheon, he lifted away the edge of her skirt from her calves, and gripping the material, he flung it high above her waist, bearing the cream-white, rounded cheeks of her ass.

The very corner of her eyes shone blue in the afternoon sun, and a smile turned twistedly at the corner of her lips as she strained against her bonds to watch him. This was enough, and gritting his teeth together, he brought his baton down across the top of her right thigh with a sickening slap. She didn't even so much as flinch in pain. Another slap, and he beat the same purple mark into the flesh of her left inner thigh.

Craning her neck up from off the mattress, she groaned softly, "You'll have to do better than that to teach me a lesson, Inspector."

Sneering, it began to dawn on him that her sighs and moans were not of pain. But soon, they would be, he growled to himself, gripping his fist around his rod even firmer. He traced between her legs, barely brushing the end of his truncheon over her skin, up towards her ass, then ever so slowly along the crease between leg and body. Her breathing grew into a pant, and the thin slit of her eye closed as she set her head back down on the bed.

Drawing his wrist back, he beat her across the jointure roughly, the skin darkening as wood met flesh. And this time she cried out. He beat her again in the same place even harder before covering the fullness of her cheeks with more and more darkening lines. Her eyes flew wide open between strikes, but he only increased his force; he would not yield, nor would he relent. A tear began to pool from the deep of her eye; he paused to take note.

Her words laughed at him, "I believe you missed a spot," she said, all the while that tear began to travel down her flushing and trembling cheek.

He placed two more blows to the back of her thighs, and one almost on her knees. Then he stopped and replaced his weapon at his side. And just as he predicted would happen, she laughed slowly half into the bedding, half up at him, "Oh please, Inspector Javert, my husband would do as much to me in his good moods when he felt extra merciful. You will never see my threshold of pain if this is how you punish me." She pulled herself up on her elbows as much as she could, creaking the wooden posters that served as her pillory.

Replacing the skirt over her bare skin, Javert walked around towards the head of the bed, and with the faintest twitch of a sneer, he sat himself down close to her. "You are by no means released yet, Rénauld," his whisper coarse and throaty. "You will remain here as you are until I return from my evening street patrols. Then tonight, I will finish just what I've begun."

"I would certainly hope so, _Monsieur_," she smirked up at an angle to him.

His lids lowered slowly over his eyes, casting his gaze, deep in precise evaluation, over her obstinate smile, her feisty glowing eyes. Unwavering, his hand reached out towards her, his thumb wiping away the smallest tear from the corner of her eyes. Cécelie recoiled at the action, suspicious of his every movement. Barely pressing on more than just the fabric of her dress, his outstretched hand traced down her back, and the intensity of his gaze traveled with it. Reaching the mound of her ass, he pressed harder, directly on the spots he knew had purpled the darkest, injured the deepest. A genuine hiss of pain escaped between her lips, and with a sniff, Javert withdrew his hand. Inhaling deeply, his head cocked to one side as he looked down at her again. "I know your secret, Cécelie," his voice was low but clear, his words slow and clear. "To you, pain is as pleasing as pleasure, and pleasure is as painful as punishment."

Her eyes looked straight in front of her, falling from the staunch angles of his face. She swallowed the heartrending sigh she felt stretching at the back of her throat, smothering the tears she felt itching at her corner of her eyes.


	13. Burning

The cool night refreshed him as he pulled his key ring from he pocket of his greatcoat, their jingling music filling the street just outside the back door to the _Préfecture_. It had been a good night, Javert reflected with a smirk, opening the ally door, which led directly to the attic stairs. Four arrests in one night made for good night. One street urchin no older than ten years caught picking pockets. One near robbery outside some hole-in-the-wall café. And two prostitutes caught assaulting and robbing their own pimp. Unfortunately, he had no grounds to arrest the pimp who was being clawed by fingernails and kicked in the groin by his own whores.

Shutting the door behind him, he made his way up the many stairs to the top floor. Since the prostitute incident, every muscle in his body was taught and anxious, reminded of the similar discarded clothing on that chair as on the whore he clapped in irons. Irons identical to the ones still straining those booted ankles and those perfumed wrists. Every rhythm of his body quickened, his breath, and his pulse, even his resounding footfalls on the wooden steps.

Insolent, rebellious, defiant. It was time he brought her under his control once and for all. Nothing he had tried succeeded, and this sparked the hottest irritation inside him. But just with any problem, any case that grinds to a halt, it was time to change his approach. It was time to change his tactics.

In quicker time than normal, he stood outside her door, grateful he had locked it behind him as he left. Slipping the key into the lock, Javert straightened himself to his full height, his jaw locked firmly, his quelled anger smoldering deep inside him. He braced himself for the worst behind that door.

With barely a squeak, the door opened on its hinges. Dim light, candlelight, and starlight. Entering, the heel of his boot caught on metal beneath his foot. Javert kicked it out from under him, sending two sets of shackles scraping and dancing over the floorboards.

A musical laugh sang from the foot of the bed, and Cécelie leaned herself forward into the window's faint light. Her hair fell loose over one shoulder, flowing in rivulets and waves, golden in the pale light. The deep blue of her eyes dared him to speak first, devilish in their intensity, insolent in their brilliant shine.

Without so much as a pause, Javert picked his shackles from the floor, deposited them in his coat pocket, and walked over to the wooden chair, empty once more, he observed. The fires of anger kindling at his core smoldered surprisingly easily for him, concentrating every ounce of his attention to removing his greatcoat and hat to lay upon the chair. Sensing motion, he peered from the corner of his eye, watching as she stood from the bed, slowly, limb by limb lifting further into the soft beams of moonlight.

Her bare feet padded silently on the floor, stopping half the short distance between where the Inspector stood and her white-sheeted bed. Finally bringing his cold, green stare fully on her, Javert's eyes patiently scanned her body. Little wonder the chair was bare, for those rags, dank and fresh from the prisons, hung loosely from her round and supple form. They no longer reeked of sweat, filth and shame, and the only scent that lit through the air was the velvety perfume of roses.

The burning, hateful embers in his soul flickered out completely; only a chill, severe and ice-hard, remained within him. All the easier for him, he thought. Clasping his hands behind his back, Javert cleared his throat, "I believe apologies are well over due."

Another lilting chuckle, Cécelie smirked wider, opening her lips, "I will not apologize for freeing myself when you left me so long alone. It's simple enough to unscrew a bed's poster and pick four locks..."

"I meant my apology to you, Cécelie," his voice was static, disturbingly present yet barely audible. He watched as her allure stiffened into a grimacing pout, her thin brows furrowing and every muscle of her face strained tight. There was the anger, the defensive fury he expected in reaction; Javert drew his eyes away from her, softening the firm press of his mouth, as he began to remove the stiff fabric of his uniform jacket. His mind quickened its sharpness, racing to find just how to best sugar his words next.

"My conduct towards you has been fitting that of a superior to an unruly subordinate," he paused to set his jacket perfectly atop his greatcoat. "Do not understand this apology to be in regards to that vein of my behavior since you have shown little respect for my powerful authority."

She huffed in derision, folding her arms before her thinly bloused chest, her face returning to its inscrutable impassivity. "However..." she prompted, her voice filled with a dark, bitter sounding curiosity.

"However," Javert straightened to his full height, bringing the kindest look capable of him down to meet her own gaze, "I believe in my fervent desire to create order and enforce authority, I have overlooked the matter of your nobility, and for that I offer you my apologies."

Like the crack in the dam that begins to leak just for it crumbles away, Cécelie's impassive expression first began to twitch, her head drawn back and her eyes narrowed to barely more than a visible slit. "Really?" she sneered

"Yes," Javert took two steps to meet where she stood, "Believe me, Comptesse." He fought a smirk as her eyes relaxed open, gazing up into his face inches above her own. "Forgive me, Cécelie," he whispered gently, smiling as he saw the traces of moisture collecting in the corner of her eye.

* * *

**Cruel of me to separate it... but it is rather long. TBC, I promise.**


	14. Milk white

**At long last, a chapter of sensuality and sexuality. Pardon my cruelty to strain your patience for so long.**

* * *

His fingers first wrapped tightly just beneath her jaw, clawed loosely around that milk-white neck. He lifted her face up to his, fingers cupping her chin in his palm, bringing those ruby lips closer to his. With an eager breath, her mouth reached up for his, pressing her moist open lips roughly into his. Her taste was sweet, perfumed even itself, as if flowers had a taste to them.

A sort of growl sounded from the depths of his throat, and a slight smile moved over his face, the light catching just a hint of his teeth as he took a step back. His fingers swiftly unbuttoned the cuffs of his sleeves, and even quicker, they began their work on the top-most buttons of his shirt. Fingers caught his, stopping their relentless motion, and Cécelie sighed, bracing her body along his as she gripped his hands. "_Permettez-moi, Inspecteur_," she whispered.

His thick brows twitched once as her hands continued down his front, her hands allowing his shirt to fall open on its own. He shrugged the fabric off as she slipped the sleeves from the brawn of his arms.

Her fingers knotted gently through the mat of curled hair in the center of his chest. Twirling it between her finger and thumb, Cécelie felt each contraction beneath her palm, each rise, each fall of his heavy breathing. He leaned down towards her, smiling crookedly as his hand ran down her back to her rear. The welts, running over her cheeks and down to her legs, puckered under his touch. He leaned down to taste her breath again, but her fingers stopped him short, pressing against his clean-shaven chin.

"Say it again, _Monsieur_. Please say it again," she said softy, her voice unusually delicate and gentle.

Javert paused, his eyes steeled over, searching her imploring face. "What do you mean?" he demanded quietly.

Leaning her full weight against him, she pressed her breasts to his bare chest, reaching her hand to the back of his head. Fingers finding the silk ribbon, she released his dark hair to fall over his shoulders. "You asked something of me, Inspector. I have not yet answered you, so ask it of me again," she whispered as close to his ear as she could, standing on her toes, her hands pulling him down by the shoulders.

Every muscle beneath her gentle touch clenched; he shifted her in front of him, bringing his darting green eyes above her face again. His gaze had lost its usual ferocity, sparking with some other light, no less intense in its concentration. He took a deep breath and pulled her suddenly and firmly against his chest again. "Forgive me, Cécelie," he murmured and pressed a burning kiss on her forehead. She shuddered under his lips, wrapped in his strong arms. He said it once more, "Forgive me," and swiftly pulled her chin up to face him, gratified to see her eyes damp again.

She nodded, smiling her acceptance weakly with one corner of her mouth, "Of course I do, Inspector Javert." Pausing, she pressed her lips to his neck, kissing it gently and nipping his flesh playfully. Her conscience stirred inside her heart, where it had rested unprovoked for years. His unfamiliar words had pierced right through her hardened protection, her chilled exterior. Guilt, a stranger to her emotions, raised bittersweet words to her lips. "Forgive me in return?" she asked hesitantly.

He casted his gaze down to the floor beside them, a dark length of hair spilling from his shoulder, covering his face from her sight. With an effort, he kept a sneer from twisting his half-hidden face.

He felt her hand pull his hair back over his shoulder, stroking gently through his patch of whiskers. A subtle smirk crossed her mouth as their eyes met, the pure blue of hers searching for his answer, pleading for him to but speak the words. She was nearly his.

Javert smiled, reaching his hand into the flowing hair that cascaded over her left shoulder. He drew her towards him, pressing her fervent lips to his again.

She felt the firm hesitation to his mouth, and laughing inside, her lips moved quickly between his, her tongue tracing over the stillness of his own, entering between their pressed moisture.

Fingers gripped into the top of his trousers, pulling his body along hers, a grateful sigh escaping her busy mouth as the warmth of his pelvis seeped into hers. The warmth, the taste of his silent forgiveness washed over her chilled heart, her shivering body. Dry fingers traced from her chin down her neck, his thumb pressing painfully straight down her windpipe, lightening at the softness of her chest, drawing to a sudden halt just at the edge of her course fabric chemise.

Pulling away, Cécelie looked up at him, pressing his hand with her own harder across her skin. "Do you not like it, Inspector?" her voice deep and soft in her throat.

She watched as his nostrils flared, feeling his fingers grip the wide collar of her blouse. Roughly, he jerked the fabric down on shoulder, his green eyes fascinated by the paleness he bared beneath. "Inexcusable," his clear voice, judiciary even, passing judgment on her garments. "Save their use for the arrest. They do not become you, _Comptesse_."

Smiling, she tugged the fabric swiftly from her body, allowing it to tumble around her feet. She gazed curiously at his stiff form, sensing just how taut every muscle was, from his tweaking jaw to his clenching stomach and rigid stance. Standing naked in the starlight, Cécelie chuckled, slightly in humor but mostly in sudden nervousness. "Are you still unsatisfied, Inspector?" she asked, hiding a slight tremor in her voice.

He exhaled loudly through his opened mouth. His dry hands gripped her around the shoulders, pushing her before him as he stepped closer to the edge of the bed. She shifted her hand from where his chest pinned it to her stomach, brushing inadvertently over the growing bulge in his trousers. Laughing, she stood on her toes, grazing her lips over the bottom of his jaw. Her lips molded to his own, moistening them with her laughing breath. "Apparently you are not satisfied, _Monsieur,"_ her chuckle grew harsher as she traced over the stiffness in his pants.

He shuddered under her touch, his shiver palpable through her own body. His kiss consumed her, working over every corner of her mouth, every inch of her lips. "Lie down, Cécelie," he ordered quietly, barely breaking from her to utter his command. She stepped back as he pressed her forward, banging the backs of her thighs, bruised and battered, roughly against the footboard of the bed.

His kiss swallowed her gasp of pain, his lips and tongue crushing hers in his relentless force. Rough hands braced against the tops of her shoulders, pushing her down to sit on the bed. Pain seared through her as she landed on the course linen sheets. His hands left her body, making short work of his boots and trousers. Taking a deep breath, Cécelie felt her nerves hum through her body. The pain of her backside mingled with the aching pleasure, a throbbing heat that ignited between her thighs. She turned over to her hands and knees to crawl further up on the mattress.

But before she could even move an inch, Javert's hand gripped tightly around her ankle. His thumb harshly rubbed her ankle's soft inner side, almost tickling her. Cécelie turned herself around, careful to ease herself on her backside once more. His sever face smirked down at her. "Too eager to wait for me?" his clear voice demanded. The warmth from his hand ran up her calf, stroking her thigh as he moved himself over her.

She sat on the bed, her legs spread slightly for him. With one hand, she beckoned him closer, grabbing the back of his neck once it was within her reach. His lips she brought to her mouth, indulging herself in his brutal, suffocating kiss again.

Pushing her legs apart, his hands twitched as they ran over the milk-white of her body. With a sigh, thick with desire, he finally allowed himself to touch her breasts, so soft, so supple in his hands. A moan escaped from her at his attentive touch; scorching, burning, searing her body as he stroked every inch of their fullness.

Lightly, she ran her fingers up the length of his cock, so swollen, so hard in her hand. With her other hand, she brushed through his long dark hair, knotting and coiling at the nape of his neck, pulling his weight fully on top of her. His massive body squeezed her last breath from her lungs. Breathless and aching, she guided him between her thighs, the pressure exhilarating as mixed with the pain that screamed through her back. She dared to speak over their gasping, throaty breaths. "Make love to me and forgive me," she kissed the stiff muscles of his neck and whispered his name into them, "Javert."

At that moment, she finally dared to look directly into his eyes, frightened by their stillness, their harshness, and also their desirous glow. He thrusted deeper as he slid his body fully over her panting, quivering form, encircling her breast in his firm grip. Never once did his eyes leave hers, boring down and holding her riveted in place by his gaze. He felt each breath that rattled through her frame crushed beneath him, each moan that passed through her lips with every thrust he made deeper into her. The milk-white mound in his hand swayed and trembled with his thrusts; he was determined not to let go of her. Hold her in place until she was his obedient, supplicating follower. Adorer. Lover.

Rocking back and forth, her blood raced through every inch of her body, overflowing in a teeming flood of pleasure. She refused to close her eyes, as if this moment of thrilling ecstasy would disappear when she looked away. That the Inspector would vanish, his lovemaking and his honeyed forgiveness along with him. He was really there, plunging his cock deeper and deeper between her legs, sending flashes of light over her vision and heat through her core. Her fingers gripped tighter in his hair, unwilling to let it go. With her other hand, she wandered everywhere over his side, along his back, light and scratching in her touch. All thoughts and worries vanished, his thrusting building speed faster and faster, deeper and deeper. Blinding heat rose from the inside outwards, consuming every nerve it touched as it raced up her back. Clutching his hair tighter in her fist, Cécelie cried out in her pleasure and her pain.

Her body rose up against his, and every muscle tightened beneath him and around him. Constricting around his cock as though she meant to hold his hardness within her. So tight, so warm, he drove faster into her, gripping her round breast painfully tight in his hand. And she cried out again, her hips rising beneath his, sending a burst of heat through his body, releasing the relentless pressure from inside him.

A groan escaped from his throat as everything left him. He rested his head on her shoulder, feeling her hand unclench from his hair and brush tenderly through its long darkness.

He left her inner warmth, breathing in her scent as he tried to steady himself. The heady scent of roses perfumed her skin, everywhere on her body. The skin of her shoulder. The flesh of her breasts. All of it covered in the intoxicating fragrance.

Her hands caressed his hair, drawing his mouth to hover over hers. But he didn't bring his lips to her mouth. Aiming lower, he sucked and nuzzled the creamy skin of her bosom, teasing one pink peak in his mouth, then the other. As she moaned and sighed at his attentions, he nipped the milk-white fullness, entranced by their velvet softness.

With all his strength, he pulled himself away from her, occupying his unsettled mind by retrieving his clothes. Disturbing that his blood still pounded, that his muscles still craved more. He sneered into the darkness as he fastened the final buttons to his jacket and straightened his cravat. Must be the gypsy in him, impossible to eradicate completely.

He reached to pick up his hat from the chair, but it was gone.

Javert spun around, halting suddenly in place at what stood behind him. Cécelie stood wrapped in a bed sheet, proffering the plain black bicorn in her palms. It was a simple offering from her polluted hands. Her eyes scanned demurely over his face, waiting patiently for his acceptance.

"Precisely at eight o'clock in the morning then, _Monsieur l'inspecteur_?" she inquired reservedly as he took the hat from her and straightened it over his hair, perfectly and methodically retied in his queue.

"Not a second later, Rénauld." His reply was cold, his face unmoving and flinty as he opened the door.

She caught his hand before he even had a chance to release the doorknob from his grip. "Of course," she ventured with a hint of flirtation in her voice, "but if I were late, I would find your forgiveness ready to consume me again, would I not?"

A slight sneered twitched at his lip, but Javert would not let the chill shatter around his heart only to fan back into flames of anger. A twisted smile formed as he noticed only a mere glimmer of defiance in the blue of her eye. Then, grabbing her hand in his, he pulled her barely-covered body against his, pressing his mouth to hers one last time.

Then he pushed her decisively away, stepping into the empty hall. "As you well know now," he said softly but clearly, "my forgiveness is not something readily bestowed. Do not expect to find it so easily. Do not seek it again."

"_Oui, Monsieur_," she replied before shutting the door noiselessly.

In the few steps he took crossing to his own room, Javert allowed a silent chuckle to rise from the depths of his throat. The revolution was quelled in the lights of her eyes, the disturbance eradicated from the melody of her voice. He had beaten her at last, the mere mention of forgiveness enough to lure the wolf into domesticity. Forgiveness, he sneered as he finally entered his own room, was a word and nothing more.

Javert counted on the power of a promise to prevent trouble. But what the Inspector had not counted on was a pair of observing eyes and acute ears in the chamber across the hall. Eyes and ears of an authority greater than his own, even, spending a late night in a vacant attic room. The eyes and ears of Commissioner Genot, himself.


	15. Empty

"_How dare you?" Thibault's deafening, slurring voice echoed painfully in her ears. Already, her eyes had swollen tightly shut, and only through the smallest slight in her right eye could Cécelie see her drunk husband wind his cane up for another strike._

_Pain seared through her back, the metal head of his stick surely cracking bone somewhere inside, though her body had already gone numb from the torture. Limp on the ground, huddled into herself for weak protection, Cécelie kept her voice barely above a whisper, faint and quiet over the man's labored breathing. "Please, Monsieur le Compte—" she used his title with the smallest hope to calm him down— "think of our child."_

_He cackled loudly down at her, bending down at one knee near her black-and-blue face. "I think of the little bastard every single day I wake next to your ponderous lump in your stomach." He took a handful of her blonde hair in his fist, pulling her head up from the ground, peering his face close to the slit of her swollen eye. "Thank Christ for that belly of yours, actually. How else would I have noticed you sneaking behind me, tracking my whereabouts into the late, sinful hours of the night?" He let her head fall back down to the floor with a thud. "And the sad thing is, you still have no idea where I go and who I see, do you, Cécelie?" he spat her name down at her, her swelling hand made a feeble attempt to wipe the spittle from her bulging cheek. _

_Her frame shook before him, a grating sound issuing from her bleeding lips. Laughter. "Oh, Thibault," her parched laughter scratched, "I have known for months now just where you go, who you see, and who you fuck... both the women and the men." She struggled to push herself up to sit, leaning forward over her pregnant belly. "I almost wish this baby within me were a bastard, so that the child would not grow up having such a father as you." _

_Cécelie snarled, lunging forward on her husband. With the sharpness of her nails, she scratched all across his face, screaming her retaliation with each bleeding gash she made. _

_The last thing she remembered was a blinding whack at the side of her head and a kick to her stomach. The pain shocked and paralyzed her. She rolled over on her side, wretched until her stomach felt as empty as her heart. Then, just before her world went black, she felt a gush of hot liquid from between her legs. Her belly contracted, spilling her broken water over the floor, but she could no longer feel the pain. _

_A fog hung over her mind, only penetrated by the agonizing stabbings all through her stomach. Her head fell on her shoulder, first one way, then the other, her vision clearing from the sleepy, stunned blur clouding her sight. _

_Shapes stretched and spun before her eyes. Blinking, Cécelie focused one eye at a flickering candle beside her head. She tried to reach for its light and its warmth. But a tight bind around her wrist restrained her. She tried her other hand, only to find the same. _

_With racking, panicked breaths and trembling, fighting arms, she tried to sit up, scream after scream begged for God to hear her. _

"_Shh," comforted a warm, gentle voice. A cool, damp cloth gingerly pressed against her forehead, and the voice continued to soothe her hysteria. "Calm yourself, Comptesse. You are safe and mending in your own bed. God has heard your prayers. You are alive." Cool water ran down her feverish cheek, pooling at the corner of her mouth. A friendly, smiling face leaned into her sight, his eyes bluer than the brilliant summer sky. He smiled as he dabbed the cold cloth over her face, down her neck. "God made you a fighter, Madame la Comptesse." _

_Cécelie struggled against her bound hands. In her writhing, her legs felt heavy, as if something weighted them down. _

_The gentle stranger shushed her again. "Madame, Madame, if you struggle, you'll reopen your wounds. Please, calm. It is alright." His mild hands unlaced the leather straps from her wrists quickly, hushing her softly all the while. "There," he whispered, "you are free. Only don't struggle so, now. You have been through dark trials, Madame. I'm only glad to see I pulled you through."_

_Her other eye opened, blinking rapidly as she tried to focus. Trembling in their motions, her hands reached for her face, tracing over its corners, barely touching over painful bruises on her cheek, behind her ear, and everywhere. Only then, her mind flashed with memories of swollen eyelids and cut lips. Cécelie inhaled her realization quickly, too deeply. Her stammer sounded distant, strange even to her ears, "Thi—Thibault?"_

_The peaceful smiled dimmed from the stranger's face. "I will not allow Monsieur le Compte to see you until you are fully healed, Madame. Not after what you have been through."_

"_Who are you, Monsieur?" her thought words passing unbidden through her mouth._

"_A doctor, Madame." His reply vaguely registered through her daze. But its hollow answer caused her to shake her head._

_The clouds around her mind dispelled every inhibition, allowing her thoughts to run spoken into the world. "That is what you are, not who you are, Monsieur," she slurred her words in a weak whisper._

_The doctor immediately stopped whatever preoccupied his hands on the stand, turning with a wry smile on his face back to his patient. "I believe the drugs have made you into quite the philosopher, Comptesse." He picked up a glass—its contents opaquely grey. "Drink this," he ordered, pressing the rim to her dry and cracked mouth, cradling the back of her neck in his hand. . _

_She gulped the foul drink down, grateful for the small relief to her thirst. Just the compassion of his palm securing her head instilled peace right to her heart. The air passing into her lungs composed her, a numbing sensation running to her lower regions that contorted in agonizing pain. _

_His kind eyes watched as the grimaces and tweaks of suffering left her face, the angelic calm he had watched for hours as she slept reclaiming her features. Removing the rim from her greedy lips, he took his first notice of her eyes—shockingly deep blue, almost violet in their shining hue. His hand eased her head back down to the pillow, returning the glassy gleam that startled him. _

"_Please, Monsieur, your name," she inquired weakly once more. For some reason, it mattered that she knew who this savior was, who wanted her to live and continue her fight. _

"_Jehan de Lacey," he answered, continued his ministering dabs of cooling water over her flushed cheek. At his Christian name, she spasmed and contorted in surprise. But as he uttered his last name, her horrific tremor disappeared as suddenly as it had seized her. _

_Concerned over her reaction, the doctor stepped to a basin of water, rinsing his hands in its cleansing soap. Such was his immediate worry for her health. _

_That name sent a shock through her, the ghost of a name from her past. When it once was filled with joy. "Jehan," she mouthed, another tremor coursed down her back. _

"_You must excuse me, Madame la Comptesse, but I will need to inspect your injuries." He pulled a stool to her bedside, his steady hands lifting the cotton sheet from his patient._

_Cécelie nodded. "Of course, Doctor." _

_She smiled at his profile, his attention fixated on the damp and blood encrusted warps tied over her lower stomach and parts of her thighs. Carefully and meticulously, he began to remove them, examining both skin and cloth minutely for signs of infection. _

"_M- monsieur le Docteur," the uncontrolled shaking in her voice pulled the doctor from his work. Her face was blanched, suddenly lacking the feverish flush present only moments before. Mouth quivering, hands trembling, she reached towards her belly._

_Bloody. Flat. Empty. "Where is my child?" she barely articulated her words loud enough for his ears. _

_Taking a deep breath, he met her pitiful eyes. Only the faintest beginnings of tears in the corners. Most women would sob and wail and cry cascades at her discovery. But not this one, not with her history, he well knew. _

_She asked him again, steadier, more commanding this time, "Where is my child?"_

"_Gone to God, Madame la Comptesse. He is his Father now. I'm sorry." He paused, unsure of whether she could handle the rest of the truth or not. The firm and steady line of her lips compelled him onward. "The night I was called, Madame, I found you unconscious on the ground, bruised and broken, bleeding with natal blood. Your child was sent into this world prematurely, your labor forced by whatever beating you had undergone. And still, you would not... you could not revive yourself for the task. So, I had to retrieve the baby myself. The scar across your belly serves as illustration, Madame. Your life is my sole duty now—" he watched her eyes shut tightly—"as I was unable to save that of your son."_

_He returned his attention to the bandages in his hands, unable to watch her stoic suffering any longer. He merely felt her unsteady breathing as he worked, shallow from her weakness. "You can weep, Madame. Grieving is what we all must do at sometime, and tears are a part of grief. It is natural." He did not glance at her as he spoke, directing his words into the bloody skin at his hands. _

_But he did feel her dark and scornful chuckle. "Monsieur, the last time I cried overwhelmed by emotion was my wedding night. The only tears that trickle down my cheeks now are solely from pain." _

_As he reached for fresh wrappings, he stared over her hardened smirk, her closed eyes, and her quivering lips. She inhaled feebly to continue. "I would not give Thibault the pleasure of knowing I wept over his dead child." A sneer twisted her mouth. "My son has a better Father now in death than he ever would in life." _

_Pity welling up inside him, he inspected the long line of stitches just under her navel, no longer swollen and straining against the thread. She was mending physically, and that was the only restoration capable of his hands. "Your incision is healing perfectly, Comptesse," he dressed the cut with a nod. _

"_Thanks to you, Monsieur De Lacey," she said, her voice just a bit stronger._

_The doctor scoffed quietly, "I only wish I could heal your wounded spirit as easily..."_

Her muscles contracted stiffly as she rolled over in her bed sheets. Sinews stretched, tight and aching. Typical of the morning after, she smirked into the early morning light. The hardened scar on her stomach still sent a jolt to her stomach as she pushed a single finger over its top. A constant reminder that she was made a fighter, but even fighters must heal.

Cécelie sighed and turned over to sleep just a bit longer. No point in dwelling on empty memories.


	16. Efficient

**The plot accelerates. Drop a review, if you please. **

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Javert turned his back to the gendarme standing at attention in his office. Grinding his teeth together, he looked out the open windows over the streets of Paris. Such is the nature of the ambitious, to be irked and irritated by another with the same vaulting resolve.

He forced a deep inhalation, gathering his words carefully. "Tanville, I am flattered by your enthusiasm, but I have already informed those to be involved with my trap." He clasped his hands behind his back. "I do not require more men."

The young gendarme dared one step closer, and at hearing the sudden motion, Javert spun tightly around. He hated this underling's posture, his short stature, his dirty-blonde hair and his messily kept moustache. And always, that sheepish grin of forced respect on his long face.

"I have always admired your work, Inspector Javert," the man's high-pitched voiced grated against Javert's ears.

He harrumphed quietly, gripping the back of his desk chair tightly in his hands.

The gendarme was not to be deterred apparently. His irritating voice continued, as did that foolish smile. "You see, Inspector..." he scratched behind his head, his shoulders raising in a shrug... "You really don't have much of a choice. It's the Commissioner's orders to add me to your taskforce." His lanky hand reached from the back of his head, diving into his right-hand pocket and withdrawing a small folded piece of paper.

In two long strides, Javert circled around his desk and snatched the paper from the weakly thin fingers. His green eyes passed efficiently over the scrawled lines for a single second for him to understand. He grunted, folding the paper in two and pinning it with his palm to the top of his desk at his side.

"I warn you, Tanville. Cause my trap to close without my prey because you were one man too many, and you have my word I will see you dismissed." He watched as the slightest trace of concern knit the young man's brow together. "You may have friends in high places, but you don't want to form enemies with authority like mine either."

Alastair Tanville glanced down at the Inspector's hand—his fist crumpled the Commissioner's notice as if to squeeze its order from it. But he was not so easily intimidated; he grinned widely. "You have my word, Inspector. What's one more loyal and eager man at your command?"

A single laugh burst from Javert as he turned his back on the gendarme again. He could only bring himself to look at that face for so long.

Just then, the bells of Notre Dame rang the hour, chiming with the deep-throated sonorities eight times. At the very last stroke, a quick rapping knock sounded at his door. "Come," Javert ordered with a smile. She was perfectly punctual. Immediately, he busied himself by sitting at his desk, organizing and sorting the superfluous stacks of paper.

"_Bonjour,_ Inspector," her voice greeted, "I've brought you coffee again, _Monsieur_."

He didn't bother to look up, gesturing brusquely with a wave of his hand to set it down beside him. He heard the door shut and her footsteps begin their short, measured walk to her desk.

But they stopped short. "Allow me, _Madame_," that whiny-voiced gendarme ventured ever so politely.

Javert's gaze flashed up, observing the exact moment for himself. He couldn't help but smirk watching Cécelie push away the hand as it reached to take the cup from her. Her eyes gleamed humouredly down at him, sharing an amused smile as she set the china cup down on the desktop. He off-handedly mumbled his thanks under his breath and returned to signing reports. The productive silence broke only for the screech of her chair as she settled in her seat beside him.

But that shrill voice pierced the silence again. "_Madame,_ are you not _la Comptesse_?"

"What does it matter to you, Tanville?" Javert sneered into his paperwork, not even bothering to direct a glance at the gendarme.

Tanville shrugged and adjusted the cuffs of his navy and red uniform. "It doesn't, '_Sieur_ Javert—" Javert twitched at the crassness of the title— "It's just that there has been little talk of nothing else for the past day..."

Cécelie's musical laugh barely surprised him, and, nevertheless, he stared at her beside him. She angled her chin forward, folding her arms and leaning them across the tabletop before her. Laughing again, she said, "And what do you say about me... Tanville, is it?"

A thin smile turned his equally thin mouth. "Well, most of it isn't fit for a lady's ears, _Madame_..."

"Try me," she interjected with a twitch of her eyes, narrowing their blue intensity at the stranger.

Tanville froze, shocked slightly by her forward, inappropriate demeanor. Guess that part of the rumors was true. With a nervous laugh, he toyed with the bright red plume of the cap pinned in the crook of his arm. "_Bien, Madame_... mostly we just... think... about what sort of a mistress you would make..."

Javert loudly cleared his throat, still not so much as throwing a sidelong glance from his papers. "I was under the impression, Tanville, that you were scheduled for duty in the lower prisons at eight every morning—" he emphatically set the paper atop an already huge stack beside him— " or am I wrong?"

Tanville forced his grin wider as he bowed slightly to the Inspector. "Excuse me, but I believe I must be going." As he turned towards the door, he heard footsteps follow behind him. And just as he reached for the door handle, a thin, lithe hand grabbed it before he could, opening the door wide for him.

"You leave without affirming the rumors, Tanville?" Her smile was alluringly crooked, her eyes fiercely dark in their hue and unashamed, immodest in their scrutiny. She seemed to look everywhere and nowhere in particular at the same time.

Her chuckle so soft, he almost couldn't hear it. "Are you not curious whether I would make a devoted, wilting, and yielding mistress."

The constant scratching of the pen's nip stopped.

"...or perhaps animated and giggly and enthusiastic..."

Breathing from the opposite side of the room grew louder, and so did Cécelie's voice.

"... or perhaps a mistress as cruel and harsh as she is unfaithful and fickle?"

The familiar clink of a pen dipping in an inkpot echoed in the heavy silence, almost deafening to the eager gendarme. He raised one eyebrow. "Well, _Madame_... which is it?"

"I will never tell, and you will never know," she laughed, dipping a comical curtsey with one hand to gesture him out the door.

He would not budge. His dark eyes darted back to the bureau, finding the Inspector still hard at work with signatures and depositions. That moment, Tanville forgot to keep his grin on his mouth. "Well, perhaps I should ask the Inspector, _Madame_, if _you_ will not tell me which one you are..."

She chuckled harsher again, "It would do you no good, _Monsieur_. I am my own mistress." Her eyes brightened, and Tanville could not tell whether fear or passion lit them. She guided him through the door, her posture tall, her jaw clenched tightly. "_Bonjour, Monsieur_," she bid him, shutting the door behind his back.

Waiting until the echoing footsteps faded from the hall, Cécelie tried to hide the tremor in her hands. She turned slowly, half-afraid, half-amused to see what expression crossed the Inspector's face. But all that returned her glance was the straight, dark top of his head, as he still bent low over his work. Hesitating, she eventually decided to retake her seat, unable to look away from him, waiting for his approval. Beginning to fear his condemnation.

Hands folded in her lap, she watched his fixated gaze, his efficient, swift work. Her brows furrowed slightly, irritated that he ignored her. She may have toyed with the young man, shamelessly perhaps. But that meant nothing, not like what they had... Her eyes flashed over his down-turned head again.

"_Monsieur_ _l'inspecteur_?" she called softly.

He grunted, tapping the extra ink from his nib on the rim of the bottle, throwing a brief look from the corner of his eye.

Cécelie's head cocked to one side, trying to catch his gaze again unsuccessfully. "Surely, you know I was merely teasing the man..."

"Of course you were," his mumble sounded constrained. Or was that sarcasm, Cécelie sneered.

"I shoved him out of your office for his disrespect, _Monsieur_..." her head shook defensively from side to side, "...and what I told him..."

"Yes, thank you, Cécelie." Javert stood awkwardly from his desk, his voice exasperatedly short. He gathered the papers from his desk, lining them perfectly in a pile. Finally, he met her gaze, the familiar piercing look catching her off guard. His mouth curled slowly into a thin smile. "Remarkable, really, the way you hide the truth. I am glad to see you value secrecy enough not to make a complete spectacle of yourself." He shoved the collated papers into her hands. "Now, the sorting will not be done by itself." His eyes glimmered as he sat back down, reaching for his pen again with a curling smirk on his gaunt face. "Get to it," he half laughed, "Mistress Cécelie."

She barely breathed a laugh, smirking as she made her way over to the shelves, sorting papers silently by their correct case number. Every few seconds, she checked from the corner of her eye if he was watching from across the room. Instead, she only found the green of his eyes fixed on the papers held in his hands.

From the periphery of his sigh, he observed her every glance; a smile twitched for but an instant over his mouth at her disappointment each time she checked. Subordination suited her, he sneered to himself.

Then the gleam of bleached white china caught his eye. Looking away from the report in his hands, he reached for the still steaming coffee. If he were not careful, he could easily grow accustomed to this newly forming ritual. The fortification after an exhausting night. The gentle hum of productivity. The soft swirling swish of her skirts as she walked about his office.

Without warning, the door banged open, Tanville panting as he stood in its frame. "Inspector Javert," he wheezed as he saluted the brim of his hat, "News from the informers in the red light district." He paused, wiping the trickle of sweat from the side of his face.

"Get on with it," Javert snarled from his desk.

"Tournot's gang must have caught wind they were being followed, _Monsieur_. The informants reported all five members entering Mistress Rosette's... establishment... throughout the course of the night."

"Are they still there?" the Inspector's face lost all expression, stony and unmoving.

"Reports say they had not left by daybreak." Tanville replied succinctly, barely glancing to the woman off to his side.

Javert stood from his bureau, retrieving his greatcoat and stick. With a shake of his head, he let a slowly, gravely laugh pass from his lips. "No, they are trapped now until nightfall, and by then we will be ready. I have barely just enough time."

His coat and stick in one arm, his free hand grabbed Cécelie by her elbow. "Get yourself ready, Rénauld. It's time to prove your other skills," his laughter shook his words, causing each one to quake in his anticipation. "Tanville," his attention shifted suddenly, "gather the first division. Efficiency is everything. We have absolutely no time to lose."

The gendarme bowed quickly, and as he straightened, he noticed how the tightly the Inspector's fingers gripped into the woman's arm. But he would not take the obvious time to pause and draw attention, turning quickly to follow his instructions.

Regaining himself, he felt the muscles of her arm spasm in his grasp. Javert released his hand from her, half-surprised she was still in his office. A flat smile formed over his mouth. "Cécelie, get going. My success depends greatly on you alone. Do not be the reason and entire gang of thieves and murderers slips through my net."

"Had that happen before, _Monsieur_?" she smirked as she stepped to the door.

His face furrowed in thought so deep it appeared painful. His eyes flashed wide, their emerald light burning back at her, steeled over in resolve. "It will not happen again," he barked his reply, his teeth frighteningly visible in his snarl.

"For my own purposes as well as yours, Inspector Javert, I will do my best." Her determined smile seemed to linger, though he heard her footsteps pace down the hall long after the door had shut.


	17. Not Fast Enough

**Author's Note on argot... To be shorter than M. Hugo's version... Putain literally translates to "whore," but is used more as the Anglophone world uses any other "four letter word." **

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_Hurry_, she told herself, grabbing her clothes, hastily throwing them over her head and around her waist. Loose-fitting and free-moving, the chemise and skirt were certainly ideal for whoring, she laughed, recalling just how easily they proved to remove last night. After years of tailored corsets and petticoats, after only a couple days in that starched tight, uniform-like dress, these felt light as air, and as course as straw. They felt naked on her skin, even the loosely-laced and blindingly-scarlet corset that clung about her body. She only spared a second to examine her reflection in the mirror. _No time for that! You're not fast enough, _the Inspector's growling voice admonished her, flinging a slur of orders in her mind.

"Move out!" his voice echoed through her upper room, drifting from the ally way below her small, open window. For a second, Cécelie spun in place, thinking him at her door, screaming the order for her, and not just in her head. The clattering of firearms and clopping of hooves on cobblestone startled her. With a deep breath, she realized she was alone. Alone. Her eyes opened wide at her next thought.

Horses... firearms... marching... They were leaving. Without her.

"_Putain_," she cursed, grabbing the shabby red shall and scuffed brown clogs from her bed. If she ran, she could probably catch them. How hard could it be to follow in the wake of a platoon of gendarmes? Biting her lip, she flew to the door with one clog on, the other in her hand, trying to catch her bare foot midstride. With an exasperated cry, she tripped over her chair, which toppled and clattered to the floor. She flung herself on the handle, yanking its panels wide open and diving headlong into the hallway.

Into the hallway and crashing immediately into a body. Grabbing the banister, she muttered a reply as she pushed past the strange man, hardly bothering to notice him at all.

Suddenly, the man's fingers gripped around her wrist like a vice, snatching her from the rush of her haste. "Where do you think you're going?" a familiarly graveled voice demanded.

Arrested in his hard and fast grip, Cécelie scanned the stranger over. She barely recognized him apart from his brawny, sinewy size. The uniform, starched and pressed, had vanished. In its place, a sullied chemise and a tattered tweed coat hung over his frame. Around his neck, a wrinkled black silk tie circled awkwardly, its knot uneven and unkempt. His trousers were baggy and his boots cumbersome and thick. Dark hair flowed loose down his back, held at bay only by the common billed cap on his head. Through his disheveled disguise, only the piercing green of his eyes indicated the meticulous nature buried underneath. "Javert?" she quietly inquired, half unsure of herself.

"Inspector, still," he corrected harshly with a sneer, "We're not at the brothel yet, Rénauld." He began pulling her down the stairs after him, dragging her unceremoniously down each flight. "So, where were you hurrying off to?" he snarled over his shoulder, turning halfway around as they reached the ground, pausing just within the ally door.

Cécelie sniffed derision. "From my window, it sounded like you dismissed the officers." A sneer crept over her face in retaliation. "I did not want to offend you, _Monsieur_, by being left behind."

"How thoughtful of you," his steady reply caught her off guard, and so did his smile. He reached into his pocket, retrieving the key to the outer door. "Of course, I am clever enough not to transport my bait so heavily and conspicuously guarded through the polluted streets of Paris." He let out a single bark of a laugh, "Just how every whore goes to work, armed by a dozen police gendarmes."

With the metallic snap of the lock, the door opened, flooding and blinding Cécelie's eyes with bright daylight. She stumbled along her unseeing way, led mercilessly by Javert along the solitary ally to the Rue St. Martin. The horde of humanity walking every-which way down its cobblestone path soon swallowed them up, and Cécelie quickly remembered what it was like to move about outside of the prison cell, outside of the _Préfecture._ She hesitated but a second, overwhelmed by the flood of community, the parade of strange faces.

Javert's thick arm gripped tightly around her waist pulling her down the pavement and towards the gently sloping bridge arching over the Seine. His whiskers scratched against her cheek as he leaned into her ear. "Come on, girl," he spoke harshly for her ears alone, "Whores don't have time to gape at the world." He pinned her uncomfortably against the course fabric of his jacket, the tweed irritating, the facial hair abrading.

Grunting in discomfort, she struggled against him, to no success. She huffed, "Certainly no time what with over-amorous clients like you, _Monsieur_."

"Oh, I'm not your client," he laughed harshly, jerking her against his side again. "I prefer overseer... your manager even."

Cécelie groaned, burying her face into the palm of her hand. "My pimp," she sneered back at the only too satisfied smirk on his face.

Javert shrugged, a humored callousness in his voice, "Well, if you wish to use the argot for it... then yes."

For minutes, they walked along the Rue on in silence, untouched, unbothered by the mass of Parisians. This was a class Cécelie was all too familiar with, that she had been raised in, that she had been married into. The up-turned noses, the prim lips, the turned out toes, the swirling skirts... Even the scornful stares of the upper class were nothing shocking to her anymore. Not one of lace-covered, clean-shaven lot spoke a word to them, giving the obvious whore and her master a wide berth.

Passing street corner after street corner, the amount of silks and corsets diminished, and with them their isolation.

Turning around a corner, Javert began leading her through a tightly packed market square, the fruits and meats overly ripe and overly pungent. Strange men and women jostled her about, this way and that, but Javert's grip never once slipped. At least, for once, his relentlessness reassured her. With a final push, they passed from the crowd, making their way down a dim, decrepit street. Filth clung to every stone of the pavement; other scantily dressed women passed them by, staring and cackling at her innocent face; and from behind a pile of trash, an ominous, barking dog growled and snapped at her, tethered to what remained of a lamppost.

Waves of tension passed from Javert's large frame into hers. Any woman who threw them a scrutinizing glance immediately shied away, intimidated by the green rigidity in her protector's eyes. The men, however, were not so easily held off. Their hungry glints and piercing whistles tailed behind them, but the glower on Javert's face was enough to keep them at a distance. Except for one burly man, his head nothing but skin and scars where hair once covered. He stumbled out a tavern door, hollering his approval.

Just as Javert directed her around another corner, his loud hoot followed close on their heels. "_Dis-moi!_ I want a piece o' that," this low voice, thick with drink, called too close for Cécelie's comfort.

"Come on," the Inspector said, rushing her down the street, his every sense alert, his every muscle straining with caution. "_Putain_, not fast enough," she heard him curse under his breath, and then she heard the cause. Heavy footfalls lumbered after them, already rounding the corner after them. He pressed his mouth against her ear again. "Stay close," he whispered, "and whatever you do, don't get in my way."

Cécelie released the disbelieving laugh from within, however inappropriate it was to the moment. "I'll try not, _Monsieur_."


	18. Examples

**So you don't hang from that cliff for ever...**

* * *

"Here now, fuck off. This one's way out'a your price range," the sudden crassness to Javert's voice surprised Cécelie. With his arm, he pushed Cécelie behind his back, advancing a single step towards the bald, teetering stranger.

"Aw, c'mon _'Sieur_. I can pay ye in advance. Had a lucky night at the tables, why stop celebratin' now that it's day." He stood steady though his head wobbled back and forth, his eyes unfocused and rheumy. A large, calloused and scarred hand fished out a handful of gold francs. "_Tiens_, enough for your princess," he slurred, a few of his coins spilling to the ground unnoticed.

Javert gave a boisterous laugh. "Not even close, _mon ami_. Like I said, fuck off."

"That's just wha' I'm tryin' t'do," he guffawed. The stranger grinned crookedly, lunging forward and trying to grab the girl by her tattered skirt. Abruptly, he withdrew his hand with a cry, cradling it in the other, a stream of crimson blood dripping from them both.

Cécelie peered around Javert's shoulder, a small sharp blade clutched threateningly in his right hand. Where he concealed it, she had no clue, but she felt a shudder of a chuckle pass through her frame.

With a kerchief, he wiped the short blade clean, his eyes continuing to stare down the trembling stranger. He cleared his voice, "I said... fuck off, _Monsieur_. Or would you rather I call the police... I'm sure THE Inspector would love to intervene here..." the intimidating sneer to his voice sent another irreverent laugh to Cécelie's lips.

She watched as a look of horror crossed the bald man's face, his drunken confidence erased at the mere mention of the police. He stuttered and sputtered, "N-n-no need, _Monsieur_. The Inspector is a busy man." His scarred face contorted even more grotesquely. "Best leave Javert outta this 'un."

"I'm glad we agree," and with that, the blade disappeared as quickly and mysteriously as it had appeared. The stranger nodded nervously and bolted in the opposite direction, back around the corner, and out of sight.

Javert turned slowly, eyeing the corner just in case the stranger regained his drunken confidence. A melodic laugh greeted him, and Cécelie stood on her toes to reach his ear with her mouth. "Can't resist using the power of your own name even in disguise, Inspector?"

He grasped her waist again, pulling along the street. "Why wouldn't I when that is the guaranteed affect I have on the scum of society?" The ring of confidence reverberated in his voice. Their pace was quick as they continued, brushing heedlessly past urchins and whores alike.

Cécelie laughed, readjusting the shawl over her shoulders, fixing the swell of her breasts over the top of her corset. "And yet, the Inspector whose mere name strikes holy fear into the criminal heart knows how to play the role of the pimp to perfection. Curious for a dog of the law to know so much about how its fugitives act."

A glint of emerald flashed from the corner of his eye as he peered down at her. "A predator must think like its prey, Cécelie. That is why I hardly ever fail. I have spent years cataloguing crime, sorting it, studying it and stopping it. Paris has been by far the greatest sampling of criminals."

"Out of all its allures, the bounty of crime brought you to Paris?" Cécelie teased, needling with her skeptical glace.

Javert stiffened, inhaling loudly with a sneer. "You could say that," he spat out. His arm contracted around her hips, and his neck craned and arched, his suppressed anger tangible through his touch.

His pace slowed as they turned down a final corner, and to Cécelie's curiosity, he released her hip, linking her arm in his instead. "Welcome to St. Michel," he gave a sniff of superiority, "the slums of Paris, where three breeds of crime exists here, the prostitute, the thief and the student."

She scanned the streets around her, the deep blue of her eyes trying to capture every detail, every begging street rat, every broken house. "Surely more than three," she scoffed.

"See for yourself." He drew her to a stop, discreetly gesturing to their right. A mass of women idled around a door stoop, flashing their breasts, raising their skirts, and batting their eyes to anyone who so much as glanced their direction. "Example one, the prostitute," the vibrations of his whisper tickled her ear almost as much his whiskers pressed against her cheek.

Rapidly, he pointed her down the other direction of the street, just in time to observe a young girl, her chemise no longer white, her skirt no longer ankle length, her chestnut hair no longer combed. She padded up silently to a drunk man, undoubtedly passed out for hours and sleeping off his drink in the muck-filled gutter. Only then did Cécelie realize the girl had no shoes, not even wooden clogs between her feet and the cold Parisian pavement. With a steady hand and a smile on her face, the child's fingers slipped into his pocket, noiselessly sliding out his billfold, leaving the drunk unaware and un-moneyed.

Unable to control himself, Javert stalked over to the scene, dragging Cécelie alongside him. Even disguised, he could no longer bear to be a mere witness to boldface and blatant crime. His eyes narrowed and his lip sneered, clearing his throat loudly to bid the girl a gruff, "_Bonjour._"

The pitiful wretch startled, backing shakily away from the man at her bare feet. Her eyes were dark and damp with recently shed tears, the innocence of a child shone through the streaks of filth that covered her face. "I'm sorry, _Monsieur," _her hand clutched tightly to the leather pouch. Her voice rasped in her throat, little more than a guttural croak, a strange sound to be emitted from such a youthful countenance.

Javert's silent stare spoke volumes of condemnation with an official air, despite his lack of uniform and the apparent whore on his arm. The girl's eyes flashed quickly and shamefully away from his gaze, pondering the wallet in her hands for but a second. "It's not for me, honest, I swear. I just wanted to help my... friend buy some of his law books," the croak of her voice lifted sweetly on the word, "friend." _ Ami._

Nothing more answered her but Javert's hardened gaze. The girl sniffled back her tears newly-forming. Just as her hands began reaching back down to the man at her feet, another stranger bounded up from an ally. With a flurry of insults and choice curses, he grabbed the girl's wrists. He snatched the billfold, bursting out in a high-pitched gurgle of a laugh and straightening the battered red cap on his head. "Well done, my girl," he pulled her after him without so much a glance at the couple standing nearby. "We might just let you eat tonight, 'Ponine, after this haul y've brought in." His gurgling laugh seemed to sound long after he disappeared with the girl down the ally.

The slightest pangs of pity threatened to wring Cécelie's heart, and so she started walking, dragging the Inspector behind her for once. Javert soon fell in stride, straightening tall with authority as they passed the dark ally. "Example two of St. Michel. The thief and the thief's progeny. They seem to reproduce faster than the law can throw them behind bars."

His twisted smile gave the faintest inkling of his irritation, she knew well enough to read that in his face. She smirked up at him. "It must be frustrating for you, _Monsieur_, to be presented so many opportunities for arrests and to let them go unpunished. Painful, isn't it?"

His smile twitched as he met her straightforward gaze. "All the more reason to make sure tonight's arrest doesn't fail. Tournot is a much more auspicious catch than any petty, daytime-walking thief." He scanned the street once more over the top of her head. "I regret I find no third examples for you to observe."

"Ah yes, the infamous, roguish student," Cécelie's cynicism bit her every word, "the greatest blight on Paris' moral and societal structure. Damn those children and their educations." She sent him a teasing, provoking grin.

But Javert did not share her shadowed humor, apparently. His face was flint as he drew to a stop. "They will be damned the moment they breathe a word of revolution, insurrection, or revolt." A glint shone from his eye as he turned to face the house they paused before. "But students are not today's prey. My trap lies in the bedroom, not the classroom."

He turned back to her, releasing his arm from her completely. "Wait here and talk to no one. Those are my orders." And with that, he stepped to the house's front door, opening its latch, and vanishing into its darkness.

Cécelie spun about slowly, leaning her back against the bricks of the building. The constant parade of lowlifes along the street provided diversion at the very least. But, she could help but feel cold reclaiming the crook of her arm, the crest of her hip. Now that she was alone for the moment again.


	19. Cheeky

**A familiar face or two? Perhaps another...**

Arms folded over her chest, chin sunk down, and eyes shut tightly, Cécelie lost herself in overwhelming thought. In the core of her breast, her heart still raced, her mind reliving that moment passed not minutes ago. A hand shoving her backwards, broad shoulders protecting her, a growl of desire, a whisper of a blade. And then, a warmth around her hips again, at once protecting and threatening. Her pulse could not quiet itself, pounding with fear, throbbing with desire. Faces spun uncontrollably through her mind. Then faces became images, then images sounds. Dizzied and disoriented, her stomach convulsed, nearly making her wretch against the wall. Her hand outstretched, Cécelie braced herself against the building's cold bricks, praying that someone would save her from this pain, from these thoughts.

"_Pardon-moi, Mam'selle_." A gentle female voice stirred the swirling vapors from her mind, and Cécelie opened her eyes once again. The first thing she noticed was the wide white brim stretching out on either side of the lady's head. Beneath the white wings of a wimple, golden brown eyes smiled at her. "Here, my child. Take this and go home. Rest yourself today." The kind, wrinkled face lit with a smile as her hands withdrew from the black cloth of her habit, pressing five gold francs into her hand.

Cécelie pushed it back at the aging nun, smiling coldly in return. "Oh no, Sister. Your charity is not for me. Leave me alone, if you please."

"God's charity is for everyone, my child." Her smiled did not wane, and she pressed the coins back into Cécelie's reluctant hands.

With a huff, Cécelie shook her head exasperatedly. "Surely someone more deserving can use this. I do not need it, honestly. You do not understand, Sister." The nun simply smiled, taking a single step away and burying her hands within the folds of her dress once more. Cécelie threw her head back, certain that Javert would return at any moment to catch her disobedience. Unintentional for once. With an impassive smile to her face, she let the coins fall from her hands, clinking one by one on the cobblestones at their feet.

The nun's gentle brown eyes glanced down to the spilled coins, then slowly rose back to examine Cécelie's face. The loving light in her smile had not diminished. "I understand enough to know that you seek a forgiveness and a love that you cannot find without God. I understand what it is to suffer from a broken soul," her voice trembled softly with age.

The mask of indifference faded from her face, and Cécelie's mind was soon drained of thought. She stared gaped-mouthed as the nun retrieved the francs from the ground, placing them in Cécelie's hand one last time. The nun closed the fingers over the smooth gold. "These cannot heal you, but it will help you, my child." She made to walk away, pausing for a second. "If you seek healing, if you seek the love of Christ to release you from this world, go to the chapel on the Rue de Bac. We Sisters of Charity always have a place for you, my child."

Glancing down to the francs, the gold seemed to smile at her in her palm. She stuttered and shook herself out of her hazy thoughts again. "Wait, Sister. What is your name?" she called.

A few feet away, the woman turned around, smiling gently once more. "Sister Clémence, my child." Then, she continued on her way.

Watching her until that black dress and those white wings disappeared, Cécelie shook herself. She forgot the weight of the metal in her hand. _Rue de Bac_, she logged the place in the back of her mind. A place, nothing more. Shaking herself again, she would think no more about it.

At that moment, she felt a tug at her skirt. Opening her eyes, she half expect to see the Inspector's glowering face hovering over hers. Instead, as she looked up, there was nothing.

"'Scuse me, _Mam'selle_," a young voice said, tugging at her skirt again. Her eyes lowered, scanning the boy's grimy face; the streaks of filth and muck hardly left any pale skin visible. His dark eyes shone with a youthful cockiness as he tipped the brim of his cap. "I couldn't 'elp but notice that ye didn't really wan' the nun's money. Think ye migh' wanna pass it off on a poor, 'ungry urchin like me?"

"Uh..." Cécelie's eyes darted dazedly from the _gamin's_ face, to the coins, and back again. She smirked humouredly. "Only if you leave me alone."

The boy nodded his filthy head, a cheeky, gap-toothed grin spread from ear to ear across his muddy face. "Sure thing, _Mam'selle_," his words whistling through the hole in his teeth. His hands greedily shoved the francs into the top of his stained stockings, the metal bunching in coin-shaped circles around his ankle. The whites of his eyes glimmered in curiosity as he straightened. "Jus' one thing, dearie, I know I 'aven't seen you abou' before. New to the streets, eh?"

Cécelie's brow rose in amusement. "You could say that... dearie," she teased the endearment back down at the boy. "Now, what about holding your end of the bargain. You have your prize, now leave me—" she glanced over her shoulder to the doorway— "for your sake, not mine."

"_Alors, Chèrie_, you listen to Gavroche's advice now. Ye'll ne're get customers leanin' against this wall." He beckoned her down to listen closely, speaking behind the back of his hand as though he shared a great secret. "The best clients go to Mistress Rosette's 'roun these parts. Lot'sa rich students who want warm and enthusiastic company." He winked at the very end, a cheeky final punctuation to his advice.

Cécelie threw her head back in laughter, her arms gripping around her waist at the innocent boy's clear and total lack of innocence.

The boy Gavroche threw his hands up in frustration. "Ye don' believe me? Go try it yerself. It's always like I say..."

"Clear off, boy!" A growl sounded from beside them, and a firm hand gripped the _gamin's_ shoulder, tossing him with a flick of his wrist five steps backwards. Javert spun around to stare Cécelie backwards into the bricks behind her, a wide scowl over his face, his green eyes glowing with rage. "And you, what about you seems incapable of listening to me?"

Gathering himself, the boy brushed the stained sleeves of his chemise off, paused to eye the pimp and his whore, and then padded around, circling closer to the two of them. "Well, wha' do we 'ave 'ere?" He bounced up and down on the tips of his toes, his head cocked arrogantly to one side as he flashed his gapped smile. "Good t' see ye again, Inspector. Been awhile since ye last came 'round these parts, ain' it?"

"You," Javert sneered. "I have enough against you, boy, to have you locked up for the rest of your miserable life." His fist clutched threateningly, shaking in anger at the boy's face.

"Shame, eh, Inspector? 'Cause it looks like ye don' want anyone to know who ye are. Why else would ye look like that," the urchin sneered back, folding his arms confidently over his chest. "Seems like ye want yer secrets kept, _Monsieur_, which means I keep me freedom..."

Javert's sneer widened, bearing his teeth, narrowing his eyes to mere slivers. He barely managed to nod his consent.

"An' I wan' something more." The boy pushed his luck with the Inspector an inch further, relishing the power with a laugh. "I wan' five francs."

Cécelie interjected with her own laugh at the absurdity of it all. "I just gave you five francs, boy."

"I wan' five more," the urchin grinned boldly at her, "or I'll scream bloody murder that the police is 'ere, an' ye wouldn' wan' that."

Javert dug into the inside pocket of his tweed coat, staring darkly at Cécelie, his thick brows furrowed so low over his eyes, she could barely see their green shine. "Where in God's name did you get five francs?" he growled, withdrawing his purse and grabbing a handful of gold coins.

Cécelie simply shrugged and shook her head as innocently as she could, trying to withhold the absurd, irreverent laughter that threatened to burst at her seams.

His glower turned on the urchin. "Here. Take it and clear off." He pushed ten francs into the boys eagerly greedy hands.

"_Merci, Monsieur l'inspecteur_," he mocked a bow to Javert before shoving the coins in his pockets.

Javert's hand pushed the _gamin_ on his way. "Enjoy your freedom while you have it, Gavroche," he snarled.

"Don' worry yerself over that." With one last haughty smile over his shoulder, he made his way back down along the Rue, whistling cheerfully through his teeth until he was out of sight.


	20. Brutal

**A bit of a tease for what will come soon.**

* * *

With no warning, his rough hand dug into her arm. Mercilessly, brutally, he tugged her about and yanked her into the house's shadowed entryway. Flinching away, she shielded her face, expecting only the back of Javert's hand to fly against her cheek. Or worse.

He ripped away the hand hovering near her face, and Cécelie shuttered, cowering even more against the entryway wall. Her wrist twisted round in his grip, palm up, raised to the heavens in wincing supplication. Something long, hard and cold rested in her open hand. Javert forced her fingers closed around the object, withdrawing from her with a heavy, forced breath. He sneered, watching as the blues of her eyes widened, scanning his present—a small but lethal blade.

"What's this for, Inspector?" she demanded, a bit harshly and flat-toned.

Javert gave a single laugh, raising a single thick brow in mild humor. "You've previously professed to that knowledge, Cécelie. I'm quite surprised at such innocence from you."

The wells of her eyes flashed violently blue, and for a moment, Javert regretted his scoff. And his gift now gripped in her shaking hand. He cleared his throat with authority. "This is solely for your protection should the situation prove more difficult to gain Tournot's confession than I foresee. Under no circumstances should you use it for anything else... is that understood, Cécelie?"

"_Oui, Monsieur_," she smiled. But that rebellious shine in her eye flashed darker, and her hand gripped tighter on the small ivory handle.

That flicker worried him; he would not allow any more risk in this matter. In a swift move, he closed the small distance between their bodies, gripping her closed fist tighter around the blade in one hand, lacing the fingers of his other through the curls at the very nape of her neck. Beneath his touch, her muscles flex, craning backward into his palm. Her eyes fluttered shut, lashes beating rapidly over the fierce pools of blue.

"Cécelie," he whispered quickly, feeling the time pressing against his plans. "I'm trusting you to obey me. I am protecting you, but I'm also ordering you not to deviate from my orders." Running his thumb over the swell of her cheekbone, he leaned in close to her parting lips. "Do I have your word, Cécelie?"

Gasping for a breath, she plunged upwards, unable to resist meeting his mouth with hers any longer. His kiss was quick and sharp, barely a lick before he pulled her from his face by her hair. Cécelie panted, straining against his grip, laughing through her heavy, heaving breaths. "Yes, Javert. Your word is my command."

"Good," he smirked, planting a quick kiss on her cheek and running his hand down the length of her arm. His hands cupped her knife-enclosing fist together.

Cécelie felt her skin heat under his gaze, the green light of his eyes swiftly scanning over every inch of her body. The thick lines of his brows furrowed in scrutiny. "You'll need somewhere to hide it, however..." he mumbled, his rapid gaze lighting for a mere second on the visible and creamy swell of her breasts. His hand explored along the top edge of her corset, the warmth of his hands tracing attentively along the thick seams. Leaning in, his sharp eyes inspected the stitching closely, pausing over every piece of boning that ran along her form. With a sneer, Cécelie could not resist inching closer, thrusting her bosom against his cheek.

With a harsh sniff, his large hands roughly cupped her breasts, shoving her brutally against the wall. Every muscle in his body flexed, his head cocked to the side as if his attention were drawn elsewhere. The cold sneer on his face twitched with a sudden alertness, like a wolf raising his hackles. The light of his eyes flashed from her face, down the rise of her corset, narrowing as they suddenly lowered. "Hold still, Rénauld," he spoke more clearly. Methodically, his fingers ripped away the threads from the corset's ribbing, opening a small hole along a solid piece of boning.

Cécelie fought the urge to press against him again, suppressing her desire to run her fingers through his long, flowing hair as she had before. Each breath he took brushed hot and moist over her breasts as he worked at the stitching, each pass of air sending a delicious wave of tension between her thighs. She leaned her head back against the hard brick wall and sighed, attempting to release her frustration from her core.

Javert paused again, the slightest angle to the cock of his head. A broad smirk passed over his mouth, and his eyes looked suddenly straight at hers. "Officer Tanville," he sneered without shifting his gaze, "there is no need to peep through door cracks and listen at keyholes here." He grabbed the scarlet thread of her corset, wrapping it around his finger, and breaking it off in a single pull. A self-gratified smirk spread slowly over his face as the front door indeed opened; the sneering and guiltily blushing face of Tanville emerged from the shadows.

Observing the brightness to his dark eyes, Cécelie followed every beady dart they made. Tanville gave a breathy laugh, a suggestive leer to his smile as Javert took the blade in his hand, carefully slipping it down the new-formed hole in the top of her corset. "_Madame la Comptesse_, you really do make for a cold lover," the officer taunted subtly, "Not even so much as a sigh while he ever so attentively caresses your...?"

"Do not deceive yourself, Tanville," Javert cut him off, his eyes still trained on the blade as it slipped between the boning ribs. "Once false move on either my part or hers, and this trap will have its first bloodshed." The ivory handle slipped completely concealed into its new scarlet sheath. "There," he gave the small opening only final inspection before standing to his full height, "the boning on each side of the blade will keep you safe, Rénauld." His hands retreated from her body, falling motionless to his side. That shine of intensity and authority glowed in his eyes as he stared his subordinate back into his place. "You have your orders, Tanville," he spoke after a moment, "unless there was some burning question that sent you to disturb my last minute preparations?"

"No questions, _Monsieur_. I simply await your signals." Tanville smiled speciously, backing into the grey-green shadows behind the door as he dipped a shallow bow.

Javert returned with a perfunctory dip of his head, staring at the door until the latch closed firmly between them. Without a the slightest pause, he grabbed Cécelie by the waist once more, leading her back into the street and into the sunlight. Blinking, she followed his lead blindly across the street, conscious of just how every rise and fall of the cobblestones beneath her feet threw her body closer alongside his.

"_Monsieur_," she asked, catching the corner of his eye, "are you really so willing to trust Tanville in this matter?"

His cold sneer widened, bearing just a hint of his teeth. Javert tilted his head backwards, silently drawing to a halt in front of the house just opposite where they had been lurking. Even in the light of day, the lamp beside the door glowed and ominous shade of red.

Javert craned his neck, his scrutiny examining the façade, peering into every curtained window that looked out onto the street. His growling chuckle sounded again. "I trust him to acknowledge just what may... befall him should he fail me. Same amount of trust I put in any of my subordinates," he turned the intensity of his green eyes down on her, "even you, _Comptesse_."

That glint sent a fiery shiver over her nerves, so unguarded, so critical, so brutal. Under her rapid breath, she cursed Tanville's poor timing and his irritating existence. But she would not allow her mind to wander to what may have been between them if he had not poked his mottled nose through the doorway. There was plenty of time for them to pass waiting in a brothel together, after all.


	21. Assurance

The smell of thin, acidic perfume suffocated Javert as he sat in the furthest corner of a purple satin settee. He tried desperately not to gag, fighting the urge to fan his face in a meek attempt for clear air. The stench was acrid as the perfume mixed with the thick cloud of smoke puffing out of the small enamel pipe the brothel matron sucked constantly on between her overly ruby lips. Bright red lips popped against a face entirely caked in white, a face powdered and bleached like the aristocrats of a hundred years ago. Even her eyes were nearly white, the coloring so faintly blue, that it disappeared into the rest of her eyes. The light red hair that clung about her neck in curls lent coloring to the aging woman, but even that showed streaks of white, as though the bleaching spread from her effaced features. Only her red lips and the tints of rough on her cheeks gave the matron a semblance of life. With an enthusiastic sigh of contentment, Madam Rosette sucked deeply on her pipe, releasing another cloud of smoke in Javert's direction.

She smirked delightedly at the Inspector's obvious discomfort, his thick features twisting in disgust. In her joyous fascination, she slid the pipe stem over her bottom lip, drawing in another breath of her cheap Persian tobacco. The smoke slinked out from the red fullness as Madame Rosette raised her penciled-in eyebrow, oozing seduction with every minute move she made.

"Care for a smoke, _Monsieur_? Something to ease your time away?" She laughed to herself as the Inspector sniffed in derision.

"I don't smoke," he half barked, half coughed in reply.

Madame Rosette settled herself against the back of her desk chair, propping her heeled boots on the whitewashed writing desk before her. "Bet there is quite a lot that you don't do, _Monsieur l'inspecteur_, but cutting deals with whorehouses falls not into that category, no?"

The woman's impertinence made Javert smirk, his arms folding tightly across his chest. "Would you rather I simply had you all arrested immediately? I could you know." His voice resounded coldly across the room, threatening in its lack of feeling.

Madame Rosette paused mid puff, and her drawn-in brows furrowed over the narrowed whites of her eyes. She left forth a trickling chuckle and a mouthful of smoke. "You're not very good at bluffing, _Monsieur_. With that precious criminal I'm keeping for you up in my attic, you need us, no?"

"I would hardly risk losing my prey by gathering the net which ensnares it, Madame. You are correct." Javert leaned forward in his seat, resting his hands upon his knees and never once releasing eye contact with the matron opposite him. He would not allow for the smallest negotiation now; his authority, his superiority between them must remain resolute and assured. "You have done superbly, Madame, to keep Tournot so comfortably occupied here, and you will be well compensated, so long as the arrest runs smoothly tonight. My agent and I will handle everything from now on."

"Ah, _oui,_ the matter of your mysterious agent, _La Comptesse_." Madame Rosette returned her boots to the floor, dusting off the white of her desktop ever so attentively. "I am rather put out that she did not accompany you here. I would rather like to meet this woman."

"Unnecessary, Madame. What _is_ necessary, however, is your assurance that Tournot and his gang are watched and that we will have uninterrupted access to the front corner room as we agreed." Javert refrained from grinning as the matron stood from her desk, crossing the plush scarlet carpet to stand before him. Rising from the settee, he stood at his full height, careful not to let his gaze move from hers. Nothing would slip through this trap if all was in his power.

Madame Rosette stopped a decent distance away, stretching out her gnarled hand. "All is as we agreed in matters of business, Inspector." Her glossy red lips drew back into well-practiced smile as his hand shook hers firmly once. "Besides, my fear of you greatly outweighs that of Tournot's gang at their worst."

Stepping back, Javert allowed himself a self-contented smirk. "Is that so, Madame?" he led her to continue.

"_Bien s__û__r,_ Inspector," her voice rolled and lilted, and all the while, her pale eyes never once shied from his gaze. "At the worst, Tournot could take my enterprise's money or snuff out some of my employees. But you, Inspector, you threaten liberty. How easy it would be for you to..." Her voice trailed off, and only then did Javert completely realize how close she had approached. The paleness of her eyes suddenly reminded him of another more vibrant pair, especially as the matron issued forth a cascading chuckle. "Well, _Monsieur_, let us say my allegiances lie with the most entrepreneurially assuring side, no?"

Javert's sneer could not be stopped from twisting across his broad face. All traces of thin accolades disappeared. "Glad you see it as such," his voice growled deeply. He turned his back to her swiftly, gripping his billed cap tightly in his fist as he crossed to the door.

"Pardon me, Inspector. I do have one more request to put to you," that silken voice called to his retreating form.

Javert turned, finding Madame Rosette once again sitting behind her antique writing desk. Reluctantly, he approached her once more. "I fail to see what more you could demand, Madame." He attempted to suppress the intolerant gravel that grated his voice.

"I want personal assurances, _Monsieur_, should you fail tonight. I..."

"I will not fail so long as you meet every once of our prearranged agreements." His green eyes flashed with an intensity that instantly dried the words in Madame Rosette's mouth, and she swallowed to steady herself. He laughed harshly once. "I believe you will understand the potential results should failure result from mishaps on your end, Madame Rosette."

She titled her head in a slow nod, forcing a ruby smile across her bleached and powdered face.

Setting the cap back atop his long hair, Javert gave as smoothly false a smile as he could. "I do not mean to end this conference between us on a threatening note, but as you understand, it is simply good business," he added another bark of a laugh, "no?"

"But of course, Inspector. Forgive my audacity, then, if I make a final business request of you in the certainty of your success." Her withered hands toyed with the enamel of her pipe again, dashing the remaining charred tobacco into a small porcelain dish. The inspector seemed ruffled by the delicate chink she made; his irritation gave her the most charming tickle of delight within her.

"You see, _Monsieur_, I cannot help but feel put out that I have been denied meeting this mysterious assistant of yours. She must be remarkable if you trust her to seduce and connive a confession from a... hardened... murderer—" her ruby lips smirked broadly—"if you pardon the unintentional double entendre."

His face gave not the slightest reaction, but Madame Rosette knew well enough how to read men with such a profession as she boasted. The male sex's nerves were easy enough to prick. And besides, it was far too amusing to twist the mighty Inspector and make him squirm.

Javert impassively titled his head ever so slightly to the right. "_Madame la Comptesse _has my full confidence. I don't see how this concerns you, however."

"Must I repeat that it is for business reasons, Inspector?" Madame Rosette began to toy with the grey-tipped ends of her faintly red hair. "I'm merely suggesting that perhaps _La Comptesse_'_s_ talents are being put to... misguided use. I could use an undaunted woman in my industry. Can you think of any reason she would not prefer to work for pleasure and profit rather than for the law?" At that moment, her pale, liquid eyes flashed up from her hand's preoccupations. "Any chance she would leave you to work in my trade?"

The Inspector's nostrils flared wide, a barely suppressed sneer slowly morphed into that same forced smile from before. "You may rest assured, Madame, that there is no chance of that. She answers to me alone for numerous reasons. These reasons are not your business—" he squared his shoulders broadly and grinned— "and neither is she." Then, he took one quick and shallow nod, never once breaking his eyes from hers.

Madame Rosette flicked her hair behind her shoulder with a hummed sort of laugh. "I will see you both once this is finished then, no?"

Javert remained resolutely silent as he left the room, fighting the urge to answer 'no' to her thin question. Shutting the door, he groaned inwardly and set himself down the flight of stairs and along a musty corridor. The flashes of nearly colorless eyes appeared like echoes of deep blue in his troubled thoughts.

As rarely as it ever occurred, Javert's insides knotted in anxiety and twisted in dread he could not shake. Assurance and confidence were simple enough to profess, but in constant need of affirmation. And Cécelie, alone, could offer such affirmation.


	22. Reassuring

**Author's warning: contents are typical for a brothel. **

* * *

The thin brass key slid easily into the door's lock, a feint, muffled click sounding as the lock gently released. The thick oaken door swung open noiselessly, and Javert took a deep breath, examining the setting for his plan's final scene. A quick scan, and his stomach clenched in confusion and anger. The room appeared empty. Muttering a curse beneath his breath, his eyes darted around, searching everywhere for her. Not to be found on the ragged and torn settee, and not in the nearly wrecked winged-back chair; Javert crossed to part the thick drapery curtains of the poster bed. Its pillows and sheets were unsullied and untouched. Just as the earliest vapors of a growl formed in the back of his throat, he heard the smallest of wracking sobs from beside him.

"No need to worry, Inspector," Cécelie said, stepping out from the heavy window drapes, "I am here."

The ball of fiery anger in his core iced over immediately at the single tear that threatened to moisten her cheek. "What is it with you?" he demanded, and, immediately, he regretted the concern that knit through his words. A sneer etched across his chiseled cheek as he crossed the room. "Why is there always something with you?" he bit through grinding teeth.

Cécelie sniffed, drawing her shoulders back and straightening with as much confident authority as she could muster. "I beg your pardon if I seek just a bit of reassurance before the critical moment, Inspector." She looked down for the slightest second, flipping the long locks of her hair over her shoulder as she returned her stare to meet his. The hardened line of his sneer remained unyielding, a sight that made Cécelie release an unbidden sigh from her lips.

She began again, more earnest in her supplication. "Haven't you ever envisioned one moment over and over again, Inspector. That one moment between you and another where triumph overwhelms your past's bitterness. With the sweet taste of victory and justification all melding together in triumph over that one other human?"

The sneer fell sudden away from his face, replaced by a nearly astonished shine to his piercing green eyes. He snarled a laugh, his face darkening and his nostrils flaring. "For once, Cécelie, I can understand exactly what you mean."

Cocking a smile up towards him, she dared two steps closer. "Both daunting and thrilling, isn't it, Javert, to hold such sway over another person?" She could almost sense each contraction, each flex of his muscled body even at her distance. "I believe I know you well enough to understand just how dearly you crave that sensation," her voice rasping softly in her throat as she closed the separation between them. "A sensation that is potent... alluring..." she pressed her body along his "... arousing even..." Her brazen hand caressed his front, tracing lower and teasing him through the coarse barrier of his trousers.

Instantly, she felt the scratches of his whiskers burying into her cheek as he leaned into her cradling, supplicating form. His hot breath seared her skin as he spoke in her ear, the heat of his lengthening shaft increasing and pressing harder into her palm with every word. "Your lack of focus is hardly reassuring, Cécelie," he admonished quietly into her ear. "Thought you should be soliciting a confession from Tournot, not favors from superiors."

"Oh, Javert," she fairly cooed in reply, "what goes on between us would clear my mind and pique my concentration for the remainder of the evening." She nuzzled into the taught crook of his neck, placing a kiss into its pulsing sinews. "Javert," she moaned again.

Thick fingers quickly caught her cheeks, gripping around her chin and clawing into her flesh. He pulled her away by his hold on her, turning the brightness of her eye towards him. "You seem to use my name all too flippantly, Rénauld," his voice barely above an articulated growl, "even after you've seen the fear it stirs on the street."

Her hips ground against his, and a chuckle sounded from her pinched and captured jaw. "It seems hardly appropriate to sigh 'Inspector' as you fill me to the hilt again," her voiced laden with audacity. His grip tightened, and he shoved her farther from him, despite the shiver that raced up and down along his spine at the contact of her body fitting so tightly against his. Blue eyes flashed brighter as she smiled demurely, even with a face so harshly cupped in his fingers. "They say you have no Christian name, _Monsieur_. And, after all we have done and been through, Javert, I'd be more than filled with pleasure to whisper such a name intimately in your ear." Her smile twisted into that wickedly delicious smirk. "Or pant and scream it as we swell with highest pleasure."

"Do not think that you know me well at all, Cécelie de Rénauld," he sneered mercilessly as he released her jaw. The green of his eyes glowed passionately and his voice trembled with force. "That is a part of me I disowned and abandoned long ago. I warn you not to pry into places you should not dare." The firm line of her cheeks and jaw and the mischievous glint to her eye gave him pause. "Besides," he took up caustically again, "should you not be saving your sultry seductions for Tournot?"

Cécelie strode forward, pressing her body against his once more and brushing the back of her hand over his thickly whiskered jaw. "I believe I am capable of doing both," she fairly sang, leaning in to press her lips into his. She felt the lengthening tightness between his legs jerk and prod harder against her belly. Laughing, she broke away for a moment. "Consider it reassuring practice in seduction. Now, won't you tell me your Christian name, if you please, Inspector."

The firm muscles of his jaw clenched beneath her fingers, and she felt his breath rattle heavier in his throat. "That is not what would please me, Cécelie."

Smirking, she read the smolder in the brightness of his green eyes beneath their thick and rugged brows. With no more hesitation, Cécelie reached beside her, parting the thick curtains of the canopied bed. Her other hand gripped at the front of his shirt, pulling him after her, pulling him on top of her.

He followed her down into the soft folds of the bed willingly, lashing his mouth to hers. She writhed and squirmed beneath him, his hands rapidly and efficiently finding her bodice laces to loosen. Clothing slow began to shed from their skin, until all that remained between them was the final buttons to his tented and strained trousers. With all her gathered strength, she rolled him over, bearing her full weight into his massive brawn beneath.

She relished the half stunned look on his face at her underestimated strength. Pressing her lips into the tickling curls of hair over his torso, she kissed her way down his front, feeling every shortened, gasping breath he took. With the rise and fall of his belly, her mouth drew to a stop at the seam of his pants, her fingers nimbly slipping the buttons and freeing his cock from its confines.

His shaking hand moved towards her, reaching for the length of her silken hair, but she caught his wrist firmly in her own vice-like grip. "Oh, Javert," she sighed dramatically, "if only you made this easier on yourself." Her smirk as she hovered over his swollen shaft twisted his core hard in a swirling mix of detestation and desire.

"How so?" he grunted gruffly, forcing his hand from hers and into the dark gold of her hair.

Her hand wrapped firmly at the base of his cock, eliciting another grunt of satisfaction. "Well, I would be more inclined in certain regards if I only knew your name." Licking the fingers of her other hand, she ran the dampness over his member. "But, it seems I will have to guess instead."

Javert tried to force a steady barking laugh, but his desire already coated his voice with its thickness. "The chances of that are too small, Rénauld," he growled, forcing that simpering mouth towards the source of his need. She took him into her mouth slowly, pressed down by the weight of his hand at her neck. Instantly, she felt him relax his grip upon her, and so she pleasured him into complacency a bit further.

Knowing his attention weakened, she gave his shaft a final suck, crawling to straddle him instead. "It couldn't possibly be André, could it?" she dared to ask despite the flaming irritation that burned darkly over his face. His audible breath sneered his negative response. She ran the peaked and hardened tips of her breasts over his chest, teasing him with a smile. Just as he made to pull them to his mouth, she back slightly away, laughing another guess. "Jehan or Gérard?"

The sudden fury that darkened his eye frightened her, and so she allowed his hands to roughly grasp her. His mouth biting and sucking along the curves of her breasts, he forced her on her back beneath him by brute strength. Gratified, his tongue worked each nipple as he willed, his hands pinning her tightly so as not to risk another taunt. Each kiss, each nip and each caress to her bosom thrilled her.

But none of this deterred her game. Cécelie strained her fingers through his hair, pulling them taught and painfully twisting handfuls of his dark locks about his neck. "Richard?" she asked, pulling his ear to her lips, "or perhaps Auguste?" She bit the soft lobe of his ear hard between her teeth, taking the moment of his hissing pain to try another. "What about Philippe?" she feigned sweetness.

At the final name, he froze, half withdrawing from her, a look of purest disbelief and surprise lighting the hard chiseled lines of his face.

Propping herself up, she ran her lips over his, sucking, tasting and savoring her small victory. "I have guessed it, have I not, Inspector Philippe Javert?"


	23. Quivering

**Apologies that this should be so long in the finish...**

* * *

Unmoving, his lips accepted her caress, still as chiseled stone to the rapid workings of her own. He appeared motionless and emotionless. Stunned into silence. The only audible motion was the heaving breath that passed from his mouth.

Cécelie compensated for his immobility with a smirk. With each breath she arched against his body, attempting to pull him back down to her, coaxing him to fill her. Slowly she tried to slip her legs from under him, to wrap around the thick girth of his body, but his weight proved it impossible. He would not budge, and his eyes still trained somewhere into the distance, burning and flickering in thought.

They glowed dangerously bright, and the first tremor of dread quaked her heart. She suddenly feared his retribution for her discovery.

Plying his moist lips with even more fervent and teasing kisses, her hands traced their way to his still swollen shaft.

At her contact, he jolted back to attention, fixing the pinpoint of his gaze deep into her eyes. Cécelie swallowed her fearful tremors, forcing confidence behind the movements of her hands. Tightening her grip, she watched the cold advent of smirk spread from the corner of his mouth. She allowed her own lips to mirror his. "If you are amazed at what information I can ply out of you think of what I can ply out of Tournot," she paused to wrap her arms around him, "Philippe."

He cocked his clean-shaven chin upwards at his name, his jaw clenching and his eyes narrowing even colder. She knew his look was nothing but intimidation, and yet, she struggled to remain reassured. From the depths of his bare and brawny chest, rumbles of closed-mouthed laughed sounded. "I do not doubt you or your fear of failure, Cécelie," he barely managed to whisper through his breathing.

With no warning, Javert clawed his hands purposely around her shoulders, flipping her onto her stomach without so much as a shadow of a struggle. Cécelie cried out at the sudden violence, a trill of excitement to her fear.

The damp warmth of his bare skin covered her body in delicious weight, pressing her, pinning her, bending her to fit him. His knee parted her thighs, and his touch traveled down her side. At the sensation of his hand's rough caress between her legs, Cécelie turned her face into the downy mattress, unwilling to share the moan that welled up within her. A second moan followed the first as she felt him enter, a contraction of pleasure writhing through her every sinew. She needed breath.

Strong fingers weaved their way through the silken strands of her hair, turning her face over as if her thoughts had been read. His hot, damp breath circled her ear as more fingers forced their way beneath her body, grasping and cupping her left breast tightly. Releasing his grip, his hand moved higher, encircling her neck, throttling the little air she had caught. He squeezed until hers gasps grew audible, until he felt her gagging in his clutch.

"Hush," his deep voice rumbled into her frame, "now it is my turn to see just what I may ply out of you." A cruel laugh followed immediately. With that, he drove deep into the heart of her, repeatedly and eagerly. Each thrust sent shocks through her limbs, her core swelling immediately with sweltering pleasure.

Fingernails bit the tender flesh of her neck, and the intoxicating scent of him was all she could barely breath, the sweat of his skin, the dampness of his breath. He slowed his taking, his hands traveling anew over the curves of her body, arresting her hands from her sides.

Filled with a sudden urge to fight, Cécelie struggled against his grip. One hand freed for a moment, she chuckled, trying to raise herself from beneath his brawn. With a snarl, he trapped it crushingly once more, pinning her tightly to the bed, capturing every shuddering, quivering muscle of her body somehow with his.

He brought his teeth down in a fierce bite on the softness of her ear. "You know better than to defy me. Where is your place, Cécelie?"

He felt only cold laughter rolling in her throat beneath him. His hands pulled her arms behind her as far from their sockets as he could, a smirk crossing his face at her inevitable cry of pain. "Where is it?" he demanded into her ear again.

Craning her neck, she managed to place a dry kiss on the smoothness of his chin, a graze of teeth biting quickly at the cleft in its center. "Under you always, good Inspector," her murmur eager with anticipation in his ear.


	24. Pitchblack

**Author's note: **_I beg your pardon for the hiatus._

* * *

Four figures crouched in the shadows, perching precariously across the brothel's rickety back stairs. Despite the distant noises, shouts and thuds, they remained dead silent. Each thug uglier than the next, they seemed to shift as one, even breathe as one. The biggest brute of the pack slowly flexed his arm, clenching and unclenching his fist as he waited in the shadows.

Through the dense silence, footfalls echoed from around the corner of the stairway. Prowling noiselessly, the brutish one crouched just on the wall's edge, ready to spring unsuspectingly. Even the muscles of his thick neck rippled with taught strength. The clacking stopped just short of the corner, and a chilling, high-pitched laugh pierced the silence. "Do you forget, Aubert, that I taught you such stealth and subtlety?"

The brute straightened at the sound of his master's voice, rounding the wall's end without fear. Only to find the hall empty. "Tournot?" he grumbled, his voice like rocks ground into sand, but his crackling voice petered off into the emptiness. Aubert slid his foot sluggishly behind him, retreating back to the darkness of the corner and within sight of his mates.

Suddenly, a leg tripped him from behind. An arm flung him in a whirling fall to the ground. And a knife blade pressed tenderly against the throbbing, racing jugular in his thick neck. The steady hand held the metal against his cheek, and Tournot's cold breath fell closer as he crouched low beside his man. "Just so you don't forget who you work for, Aubert." The knife hissed as he drew it swiftly across the fleshy cheek beneath it, the flesh parting quickly and cleanly.

Aubert staggered quickly to his feet, wounded and groaning like an animal too long punished. His crimson fingers clutched his cheek as he stared down his leader.

Jacques Tournot stood—cold, composed, blasé even—as he stared at the dripping blade in his left hand. His grin broadened with each red drop of blood that ran down its ivory handle. "You know, it's a shame, really we must leave such a fine establishment such as this, gentlemen."

" 'S your own fault, Monsieur," Aubert snapped brusquely, wiping his gash with the grimy cuff of his coat. His beefy smile widened as he felt the others gather behind him. A smile that grew confident in his master's face, despite the smears of blood and dirt across the paunch of his cheek.

Tournot turned his crystalline dark eyes to meet those blurry, useless stares opposite him. The grin fell from his gaunt face, and his lip twitched stiffly. Just once. And his pale hand lowered the still dirty blade to his side. "Do you care to explain yourself, Monsieur Aubert?" His voice trembled, rising even higher in pitch, dropping in volume to a ghastly whisper.

"You like this place too much, so the coppers know just where to come and find you. We could be trapped like rats, all because the great Tournot can't stop fucking whores at Madame Rosette's."

Before Aubert could draw another breath, Tournot's arm swiped just once, arcing in front of the gang's wide eyes. Only one sound that issued from the brute's mouth. A damp, suffocated gurgle. His head slid backwards unnaturally far, his eyes rolled upwards to stare at his mates behind him as his throat gave way. Slit from ear to ear. A crimson gashing smile as his ponderous body thundered in a heap before their feet.

Collectively, the others glanced to Tournot, whose grin was wider than before, his perfectly bleached handkerchief becoming redder with each cleansing wipe of his knife. "Anyone else wish to offer blame for our current predicament, messieurs? Or is one Judas enough for the evening?"

"No, sir," ventured the thinnest of the remaining three men, his deep voice barely unable to betray his fear in his two swallowed syllables.

"Good," Tournot giggled slowly, sliding his knife back somewhere into the lining of his tailed jacket. "One death makes for a splendid night. More than one is just in poor taste." He stepped over Aubert's corpse, careful not to let the still-running blood touch is shoes. "And since you've spoken first, my dear Patpan, you receive the humblest honors of dragging poor ol' Aubert's body to the alleyway." Shooing the thin one off in the direction of the paneled door in the wall near by.

But before Patpan whined his objections, the door creaked open quickly. With a huff and a mumbled curse or two, a woman pushed her way through the men before her. She clutched her sullied red shawl about her shoulders, though not tighly enough so as to hide the perfect pale swell of her neckline. Anxiously, she bit her tinted lip. "Always late for my shifts," she muttered with another choice word. "That's what I get for changing pimps."

"Well now," Tournot seemed to purr as he caught the hurrying whore in his arms. "What a perfect way to continue the evening's festivities, wouldn't you know it."

The prostitute giggled at the sudden prospect, her blonde hair flicking as he spun her about and her deep dark blue eyes shining with mutual mischief. "Barely in the building and you wish to put me to work, Monsieur? I just happen to be unoccupied. How convenient."

"You have no idea, Mam'selle," his purr rasping dryly, unnervingly as he stopped his twirling.

Patpan cleared his throat with strangled apprehension. "But, sir, we need to be off, sir. We need to get outta here, sir..." The chilling, smoldering look Tournot shot him silenced every word remotely relevant he would ever dare to say.

With another stretched string of giggles, Tournot shoved the girl towards the stairs, letting her get some distance before his berating whisper scratched at his crony's ear. "Don't be such a moralist, Patpan. After all, you know just can't pass up a good fuck, especially not with the sort of hard-on I get once I kill..." His eyes narrowed their pitch-black fury. "And you wouldn't want to give me reason to kill again, now would you?"

Swallowing audibly, Patpan shook his stringy locks and shuffled away from his master's grip. "Meet you along the _Pont-du-Change_, then as usual? In one hour?"

"Mmm," Tournot cast a furtive glance up the stairs where he could barely catch sight of the girl's skirt. "Better make it two. This one's pretty enough for some effort."


End file.
